r... 

NZ?s: 

~y  r.'.  r;- 

/GRM; 

AT     " 

.OS  AUG:" 

LiES 

^1 


\J ' 


Digitized  by  tlie  Internet  Arcliive 

in  2007  witli  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.arcli  ive.org/details/arnesketcliofnorwOObjoriala 


ARNE 


a  ^ketd)  of  Bortuegian  Countrj)  Life 


BY 


BJORNSTJERNE    BJORNSON 


TRANSLATED    FROM     THE     NORWEGIAN     BY 


AUGUSTA  PLESNER   and    S.  RUGELEY-POWERS 


r 


SEVER,     FRAXCrS,    &    CO 
Boston  anti  Cnmbrtliffe 

1S69 


CAMBRIDGE  : 

RESS   OF    JOHN    WILSON    AND   SON 


r 


TRANSLATORS'    PREFACE. 


^^  '  I  ^HE  story  which  is  here  first  presented  in  an 
ul  '■"  Enghsh  form,  is  one  of  Herr  Bjiirnson's  best 
works.  In  the  original,  it  has  ah-eady  attained  a 
very  wide  circulation  throughout  Northern  Europe, 
and  is  there  generally  recognized  as  one  of  the 
truest  and  most  beautiful  representations  of  Norwe- 
gian life.  At  the  present  time,  when  there  is  among 
us  a  constantly  increasing  interest  in  all  things  per- 
taining to  the  Scandinavian  nations,  this  work  pos- 
sesses great  claims  to  attention,  not  only  through  its 
intrinsic  merits,  but  also  from  the  fict  that  it  is  one 
of  the  very  few  works  wliich  can,  in  the  fullest 
sense,  be  termed  Norwegian.  During  the  long 
political  union  of  Norway  with  Denmark,  Nor- 
wegian literature  was  so  deeply  imbued  by  Danish 
thought  and  feeling,  that  it  could  not  be  considered 
national.  After  those  political  changes  in  1S14, 
which  placed  Norway  among  tlie  free  nations,  she 
strove  to  take  an  independent  position  ;  and  she  pro- 
duced several  gifted  writers  who  endeavored  to  cre- 
ate a  national  literature  ;  but  she  had  for  man}'  }-ears 

iii 


IV  PREFACE. 

no  great  works  unimpressed  with  the  old  Danish 
stamp.  Not  till  1857,  when  a  young  and  compara- 
tively unknown  writer  published  a  book  called 
''  Synnove  Solbakken,"  can  the  distinct  literary 
life  of  Norway  be  considered  to  have  commenced. 
That  young  writer  was  Bjornstjerne  Bjornson.  Since 
the  appearance  of  ''Synnove  Solbakken,"  he  has  pro- 
duced the  present  story,  a  few  other  short  sketches, 
and  several  dramatic  works.  All  these  productions 
are,  both  in  subject  and  style,  thoroughly  represent- 
ative of  the  grand  old  nation  whence  they  sprang ; 
and  the}'  are,  moreover,  so  full  of  original  poetic 
beauty  and  descriptive  power,  that  they  have 
stamped  their  author  as  one  ot  the  greatest  writers 
in  Northern  Europe. 

While  presenting  this  work  from  one  who  so  well 
deser\'es  to  be  known  and  lionored  by  all,  we  very 
much  wish  we  could  also  present  a  sketch  of  his 
history.  But,  so  far  as  we  ha\-e  been  able  to  ascer- 
tain, tliere  is  \ery  little  material  ;  f()r,  liappil}'.  Ilerr 
Bj'irnson  is  yet  \-oung,  and  in  the  midst  of  his  liter- 
ary career  ;  and  tlierefore  onlv  a  small  ]")art  of  his 
lile-stor\-  can  yet  be  told.  We  have,  howe\'er,  ob- 
tained a  t'cw  interesting  details,  principalh'  from  a 
lililc  sketch  in  tlie  Danish  of  Ilerr  Clemens  Peter- 
sen. 

Ilcrr  Ijjilriison  is  the  son  of  a  clerg\'man  ;  and 
wa-;  lioni  in  i'^32.  at  Kvikne,  a  loneh'  parish  on  the 
Dovre  l-'jrld.  In  his  earliest  years,  he  was  so  far 
from  being  marked  by  any  unusual  degree  of  men- 
tal   develupmeiit,    tliat    he    was    even    regarded    as 


PREFACE. 


"  stupid  :  "  he  seems  to  have  been  at  that  time  merely 
a  strong-limbed,  happy,  playful  little  fellow.  When- 
ever he  was  at  home,  he  constantly  made  the  quiet 
parsonage  a  scene  of  confusion  and  uproar  through 
his  wild  play.  "Things,"  says  Herr  Petersen, 
"  which  had  within  the  memory  of  man  never  been 
moved,  were  flung  down  ;  chairs  and  tables  spun 
round ;  and  all  the  girls  and  boys  in  the  place  ran 
about  with  him  in  noisy  play ;  while  his  mother 
used  to  clasp  her  hands  in  fright,  and  declare  he 
must  soon  be  sent  off  to  sea."  When,  in  his  twelfth 
year,  he  went  to  school,  he  appears  to  have  been 
just  as  little  characterized  by  any  unusual  mental 
development,  and  just  as  much  by  physical  activity. 
He  was  placed  on  the  lowest  form  to  learn  with  the 
little  boys.  But  when  he  got  out-doors  into  the 
playground,  he  \\as  at  once  among  the  leaders,  and 
feared  nobody  :  on  one  occasion  he  soundh'  thrashed 
the  strongest  boy  in  the  whole  school.  Although, 
however,  no  one  else  at  this  time  saw  any  promise 
of  his  future  greatness,  he  had  himself  a  presenti- 
ment of  it :  deep  in  the  heart  of  the  rough  Norwe- 
gian school-boy,  who  seemed  to  think  of  little  but 
play,  was  hidden  a  purpose  to  become  an  author, 
and  even  the  greatest  of  all  autliors. 

At  the  University,  Ilerr  IjiTirnson  was  as  little  dis- 
tinguished by  intellectual  attainments  as  at  school ; 
and  he  never  passed  the  sect)nd  part  of  his  examina- 
tion, lie  seems,  indeed,  never  to  have  been  a  very 
earnest  student  of  an\'  writings  save  those  "manu- 
scripts of  God  "  contained  in  the  great  ^'olumcs  of 


VI  PREFACE. 

Nature  and  human  society.  These,  few  have  stud- 
ied more  earnestly,  or  translated  with  greater  force 
and  beauty. 

While  studying  at  the  University,  Herr  Bjornson's 
literary  purposes  still  remained ;  and  during  this 
time  he  produced  his  first  drama,  "Valburg,"  though 
he  had  then  never  read  one  dramatic  work  through, 
or  been  at  a  theatre  more  than  twice  in  his  life.  He 
sent  "  Valburg "  to  the  managers  of  the  theatre  at 
Christiana  ;  and  it  was  accepted.  But  as  soon  as  he 
had  been  to  the  theatre  a  few  times,  he  decided  that, 
in  its  present  state,  it  was  not  a  fit  medium  for  the 
expression  of  his  inner  life ;  and  he  therefore  took 
his  piece  back  before  it  had  been  played.  For  a 
while  afterwards,  he  devoted  a  great  part  of  his 
time  to  dramatic  criticism.  He  attacked  some  of 
the  prevalent  errors  in  theatrical  atlairs  with  so 
much  force  and  boldness  that  he  greatly  exasperated 
the  orthodox  actors  ami  managers,  and  thus  brought 
down  much  annoyance  upon  himself.  His  criti- 
cisms were,  however,  the  means  of  greatlv  improv- 
ing tiie  Norwegian  drama,  especial!}'  b}-  partly 
releasing  it  from  the  undue  Danish  intluence  which 
prevented  it  from  becoming  truly  national. 

Herr  lijiirnson  subsequently  abandoned  his  dra- 
matic criticism,  left  Christiana,  and  returned  to  his 
father's  home  in  the  country.  Here  he  assiduously 
devoted  iiimself  to  literary  work,  but  without  very 
satisfactory  taiigil)le  results.  Next,  he  went  back 
to  Christiana,  and  en-iplo3-ed  himself  in  writing  for 
various  periodicals,  where  lie  inserted  a  series  of 


PREFACE.  VU 

short  sketches  which,  although  far  inferior  to  his 
subsequent  and  more  mature  productions,  bore 
strong  indications  of  genius,  and  attracted  much 
attention.  But,  meanwhile,  their  noble  young  au- 
thor lived  a  sad  and  weary  life  —  depressed  by  the 
fear  that  his  best  hopes  would  never  be  realized 
—  harassed  by  pecuniary  difficulties,  and  tormented 
by  the  most  cruel  persecution.  Next,  he  went  to 
Upsala,  where  he  still  employed  himself  upon  peri- 
odical literature,  and  had  an  interval  of  comparative 
quiet  and  happiness.  Thence,  he  travelled  to  Ham- 
burg, and  afterwards  to  Copenhagen.  Here  he 
remained  half  a  year,  living  a  quiet,  studious  life, 
and  associating  with  some  of  the  most  eminent  men 
in  the  city.  "Those  days,"  said  he,  "were  the  best 
I  ever  had."  Certainly,  they  were  very  fruitful 
ones.  In  them  he  produced  one  complete  work, 
parts  of  several  others,  and  the  first  half  of  "  Syn- 
nove  Solbakken,"  the  tale  which  was  destined  to 
place  him  in  the  foremost  rank  of  Scandinavian 
writers.  It  is  a  remarkable  fact  that  shortly  before 
he  left  Copenhagen  with  all  this  heap  of  wealth,  he 
had  passed  through  a  crisis  of  such  miserable  de- 
pression that  he  was  just  about  to  abandon  literary 
labor  for  ever,  through  a  sense  of  utter  unlitness  to 
perform  it. 

From  Copenhagen,  Ilerr  BjiJrnson  returned  to 
Norway,  and  was  for  two  years  manager  of  the 
theatre  at  Bergen,  occupying  most  of  the  time  in 
the  training  of  actors.  Thence  he  went,  with  liis 
young  wife,  again  to  Christiana,  where  he  for  some 


Vm  PREFACE. 

months  edited  Aflcnbladct,  one  of  the  leading  Nor- 
wegian journals. 

Relative  to  Herr  Bjurnson's  subsequent  life  and 
labors,  there  is  but  very  little  available  informa- 
tion. 


Of  our  own  part  in  the  following  pages,  we  have 
but  to  say  we  have  earnestly  endeavored  to  deal 
laithfully  and  reverently  with  Herr  BjJlrnson's  work, 
and  to  render  nearly  every  passage  as  fully  and  lit- 
erally as  the  construction  of  the  two  languages  per- 
mits. The  only  exceptions  are  two  very  short,  and 
comparatively  very  unimportant  passages,  which  we 
have  ventured  to  omit,  because  we  believed  they 
would  render  the  book  less  acceptable  to  English 
readers. 

LoNDfjN.  June,  iS66. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER 

I.     How  TUK  Cliff  was  Clad 


II.  A  Cloudy  Dawx 

III.  Skking  ax  old  Love 

IV.  Tin-:  Uxlamen'ted  Death     .     .     , 
V.  "He  had  IX  HIS   Mixu  A  SoxG  " 

VI.,  Straxge  Tales 

VII.  The  Soliloquy  ix  the  }5arx  .     . 

\'III.  The  Shadows  ox  the  Water 

IX.  The  Nuttixg-Party   .     .     .     . 

X.  LOOSEXIXG    THE    \VeATHER-\'AXE 

XI.  Eli's  Siukxess 

XII.  A  (jLI.^u•sE  OF  Si'Kixc;       .... 

XIII.  MAR(aT    COXSULTS    THE    ClERGYMAX 

XIV.  FiXDIXC;    A    LOST    .SoXG         .... 
XV.  SoMEIiODY's    FUTURi:    Ho.ME    .       .       . 

X\  I.  The  Double  Weddixg     .... 


15 
24 

34 
42 
48 

55 

60 

6S 

S3 

95 

10-4 

1 12 

122 

131 

147 


A  R  N  E. 


HOW  THE    CLIFF    WAS    CLAD. 

BETWEEN  two  cliffs  lay  a  deep  ravine,  with  a  full 
stream  rolling  heavily  through  it  over  boulders  and 
rough  ground.  It  was  high  and  steep,  and  one  side  was 
bare,  save  at  the  foot,  where  clustered  a  thick,  fresh 
wood,  so  close  to  the  stream  that  the  mist  from  the  water 
lay  upon  the  foliage  in  spring  and  autumn.  The  trees 
stood  looking  upwards  and  forwards,  unable  to  move 
either  way. 

'•What  if  we  were  to  clothe  the  Cliff?"  said  the  Juni- 
per one  day  to  the  foreign  Oak  that  stood  next  liim. 
The  Oak  looked  do^vn  to  llnd  out  who  was  speaking, 
and  then  looked  up  again  without  answering  a  word. 
Tlie  Stream  worked  so  hard  that  it  grew  white  ;  the 
Northwind  rushed  tlirough  tlie  ravine,  and  sin-ieked  in 
the  hssures  ;  and  tlie  bare  Cliff  hung  lieavilv  over  and 
felt  cold.  ••  What  if  we  were  to  clotlie  the  Cliff?"  said 
the  Juniper  to  the  Fir  on  tlie  other  side.  ••  Well,  if  anv- 
bodv  is  to  do  it,  I  su[)pose  %ve  must,"  replied  the  Fir. 
stroking  his  beard  ;  "what  dost  thou  think?"  he  added. 
looking  over  to  the  Birch.  •"  In  God's  name,  let  us 
clothe  it,"  answered  the  Hircli.  glancing  timidlv  towards 
the  Cliff,  which  hung  o\'er  her  so  hea\ilv  that  she  felt  as 
if  she  could  scarcelv  l)reathe.     And  thus,  although  thev 


12  ARXE. 

were  but  three,  they  agreed  to  clothe  tlie  Clitr.  The 
Juniper  went  fh'st. 

\\'hen  thev  had  gone  a  Httle  way  they  met  the  Heather, 
The  Juniper  seemed  as  thougli  he  meant  to  pass  lier  l)v. 
'•  Xav.  let  us  take  the  Heather  with  us,"  said  tlie  Fir. 
So  on  went  the  Heather.  .Soon  the  Juniper  began  to 
slip.  '"Lav  hold  on  me,"  said  the  Heatlier.  The  Juni- 
])er  did  so.  and  where  there  was  only  a  little  crevice  the 
Heathei"  put  in  one  finger,  and  where  she  had  got  in  one 
linger  the  Jimiper  put  in  his  wliole  hand.  Thev  crawled 
antl  climbed,  tlie  Fir  heavily  behind  with  the  liirch.  '•  It 
is  a  work  of  charitv,"  said  the  Birch. 

]5ut  the  Clitl'  began  to  ponder  what  little  things  these 
could  be  that  came  clambering  up  it.  And  when  it  had 
thought  over  this  a  few  hundred  vcars.  it  sent  down  a 
little  Brook  to  see  about  it.  It  was  just  spring  Hood, 
and  the  Brook  rushed  on  till  she  met  the  Heather. 
"'Dear,  dear  Heather,  canst  thou  not  let  me  pass?  I 
am  so  little."  said  the  Ih'ook.  The  Heather,  being  very 
busv.  onl\  raised  herself  a  little,  and  worked  on.  The 
l>rook  slipped  under  her,  and  ran  onwards.  "Dear, 
dear  Juni])er,  canst  thou  not  let  me  pass?  I  am  so 
little."  said  the  l>rook.  The  |unii)er  glanced  sharj)ly 
at  lier  ;  but  as  the  J  leather  had  let  lier  pass,  he  thought 
he  might  do  so  as  well.  The  i5rook  slijiped  under 
him.  and  ran  on  till  she  came  where  the  V\v  stood 
jjantiiig  on  a  crag.  •"  Dear,  dear  Fir.  canst  ihou  not 
I'.t  me  ])a-^?  I  am  so  little."  the  P)rook  said,  fondlv 
ki-Mn'4  the  I'ir  on  his  foot.  The  h'ir  felt  bashful  and 
let  hei'  ])a-^.  lint  the  jiirch  made  \\a\-  bef>re  tlie 
l!ror,k  a-ked.  "He.  he.  he."  laughe.l  the  P.rook.  as 
'-he  gi'ew  larger.  "I  la.  ha.  ha."  laughed  the  Brook 
again.  ])u-]iing  Heather  and  Juniper.  Fir  and  Birch, 
foiAsards    and    backwanls.    up    and    down    on    the    great 


7IOW    THE    CLIFF    WAS    CLAD.  I3 

crags.  The  Cliff  sat  for  many  hundred  years  after, 
pondering  whether  it  did  not  smile  a  little  that  day. 

It  was  clear  the  Cliff  did  not  wish  to  be  clad.  The 
Heather  felt  so  vexed  that  she  turned  green  again,  and 
then  she  went  on.  "Never  mind;  take  courage!"  said 
the  Heather. 

The  Juniper  sat  up  to  look  at  the  Heather,  and  at 
last  he  rose  to  his  feet.  He  scratched  his  head  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  he  too  went  on  again,  and  clutched 
so  Ih'inlv,  that  he  thought  tlie  Cliff  could  not  help 
feeling  it.  '■'  If  thou  wilt  not  take  mc,  then  I  will  take 
thee,"  said  he.  The  Fir  bent  his  toes  a  little  to  feel  if 
thev  ^vere  whole,  lifted  one  foot,  ^\■l1ich  he  fomid  all 
riglit.  then  the  other,  which  was  all  right  too.  and  then 
l^iolh  feet.  He  first  examined  the  path  lie  had  come, 
then  where  he  had  been  hing.  and  at  last  where  he 
had  to  go.  Tlien  he  strode  onwards,  just  as  though 
he  had  ne\er  fallen.  The  Birch  had  been  splashed 
very  badly,  but  now  she  got  up  and  made  lierself  ticlv. 
And  so  thev  went  rapidh'  on,  upwards  and  sidewards. 
in  sunshine  and  rain.  '•  Ihit  what  in  the  world  is  all 
this?"  said  the  CHtf.  when  tlie  sunnner  sun  shone,  the 
dew-drops  glittered,  the  birds  sang,  the  wood-mouse 
sciueaked.  the  hare  l)ounded.  and  the  weasel  hid  and 
screamed   among   the   trees. 

Then  tlie  da\-  came  when  the  Heather  could  pcej) 
over  the  Clitf's  edge.  '•  Oh.  dear  me  I  "  said  she.  and 
over  she  went.  '"What  is  it  the  Heather  sues,  dear:'" 
said  tlie  luniper.  and  came  fu'wards  till  lie.  too.  could 
peep  o\er.  ••  Dear  me  I  "  he  cried,  and  over  he  went. 
'•  W'liat 's  the  matter  with  \\\c  Junipei'  to-(la\  :  "  said  the 
Fir.  taking  long  strides  in  the  hot  sun.  Soon  lie.  too. 
bv  standing  on  tiptoes  could  peep  ()\er.  ••  .\h  !  "  —  everv 
branch  and  prickle  stcnxl  on  end  with  astonislnnent.      He 


14  ARNE. 

Strode  onwards,  and  over  he  went.  "  What  is  it  they  all 
see,  and  not  I?"  said  the  Birch,  lifting  up  her  skirts,  and 
tripping  after.  "Ah!"  said  she,  putting  her  head  over, 
"  there  is  a  whole  forest,  botli  of  Fir  and  Heather,  and 
Juniper  and  Birch,  waiting  for  us  on  the  plain  ; "  and  her 
leaves  trembled  in  the  sunshine  till  the  dew-drops  fell. 
••  This  comes  of  reaching  forwards,"  said  the  Juniper. 


A    CLOUDY    DAWX.  I5 


II. 

A    CLOUDY  DAWN. 

ARNE  was  born  upon  the  mountain  plain. 
His  mother's  name  was  AIar<^it,  and  slic  was  the 
only  child  at  the  farm,  Kampen.  In  her  ci<^hteenth  year 
she  once  staved  too  loni^  at  a  dancinq'  party.  Tlie  friends 
she  came  with  had  left,  and  then  she  thought  the  way 
homewards  would  be  just  the  same  whether  she  stayed 
over  another  dance  or  not.  So  it  came  to  ])ass  that  she 
was  still  sitting  there  when  the  fiddler,  Nils,  the  tailor, 
laid  aside  his  violin  and  asked  another  man  to  plav.  He 
then  took  out  the  prettiest  girl  to  dance,  his  feet  keeping 
as  exact  time  as  the  music  to  a  song,  while  with  his  boot- 
heel  he  kicked  off  the  hat  of  the  tallest  man  there.  '"  Ho  !  " 
he  said. 

As  ^vlargit  walked  home  that  night,  the  moonbeams 
plaved  upon  the  snow  with  such  strange  bcautv,  that 
after  slie  liad  gone  up  to  her  bedchamber  she  felt  slie 
must  look  out  at  them  once  more.  .She  took  oil"  licr 
bodice,  but  remained  standing  with  it  in  her  liand.  Tlicn 
she  felt  cliilh',  undressed  herself  hastih'.  and  croucheil 
far  down  beneath  the  fur  coverlet.  That  niglit  she 
dreamed  of  a  great  red  cow  which  had  gone  aslra\'  in 
the  corn-fields,  v'^^lie  wished  to  drive  it  out.  but  ho\vc\  cr 
much  she  tried,  she  could  not  mo\e  from  the  spot;  and 
the  cow  stood  nuieth'.  and  went  on  eating  till  it  grew 
plump  and  satisfied,  from  time  to  time  looking  over  to 
her  \vith   its  larire.   mild  eves. 


1 6  ARNE. 

The  next  time  there  was  a  dance  in  the  parish,  Margit 
was  there.  She  sat  listening  to  the  music,  and  cared 
little  for  the  dancing  that  night ;  and  she  was  glad  some- 
body else,  too,  cared  no  more  for  it  than  she  did.  But 
when  it  grew  later  the  fiddler,  Nils,  the  tailor,  rose,  and 
wished  to  dance.  He  went  straight  over  and  took  out 
!Margit,  and  before  she  well  knew  what  she  was  doing 
she  danced  with  him. 

Soon  the  weather  turned  warmer,  and  there  was  no 
more  dancing.  That  spring  Margit  took  so  much  care 
of  a  little  sick  lamb,  that  her  mother  thought  her  quite 
foolish.  '•  It's  only  a  lamb,  after  all."  said  the  mother. 
"  Yes  ;    but  it's  sick,"  answered  iMargit. 

It  was  a  long  time  since  Margit  had  been  to  church  ; 
somel)odv  must  stay  at  home,  she  used  to  sav,  and  she 
would  rather  let  the  motlier  go.  One  vSundav,  however, 
later  in  the  summer,  the  weather  seemed  so  fine  that  the 
hay  might  very  well  be  left  over  that  day  and  night,  the 
motlier  said,  and  she  thought  both  of  them  might  go. 
^Margit  had  nothing  to  say  against  it.  and  slie  went  to 
dress  herself.  But  when  they  had  gone  far  enougli  to 
hear  the  church  bells,  she  suddenly  burst  into  tears. 
The  mother  grew  deadly  pale  ;  yet  they  went  on  to 
cliurcli,  heard  tlie  sermon  and  prayers,  sang  all  tlie 
hvnnis,  and  let  the  last  sound  of  the  bells  die  awav  be- 
fore thtv  left.  ])Ut  when  thev  were  seated  at  liome  again, 
the  nidthcr  took  Margit's  face  between  her  hands,  and 
said,   ■•  Keep   back   nothing  from   me,   inv   child!" 

Wlien  another  winter  came  Margit  did  not  dance. 
But  Nils,  the  tailor.  pla\ed  and  drank  more  than  ever, 
and  alwa\s  danced  with  the  prettiest  girl  at  every  partv. 
I'eople  tlien  said,  in  fad.  he  might  have  had  anv  one  of 
the  first  girLs  in  tlie  ])arish  for  liis  wife  if  lie  chose  ;  and 
some  even  said  that  Eli  Boen  had  himself  made  an  oiler 


A    CLOUDY    DAWN.  I^ 

for  his  daughter,  Birgit,  who  had  quite  fallen  in  love 
with  him. 

But  just  at  that  time  an  infant  born  at  Kampcn  was 
baptized,  and  received  tlie  name,  Arne  ;  but  Nils,  the 
tailor,  was  said  to  be  its  father. 

On  the  evening  of  the  same  day.  Nils  went  to  a  large 
wedding-party ;  and  there  he  got  drunk.  He  would  not 
play,  but  danced  all  the  time,  and  seemed  as  if  he  could 
hardly  bear  to  have  any  one  on  the  floor  save  himself. 
But  when  he  asked  Birgit  Bcien  to  dance,  she  refused. 
He  gave  a  short,  forced  laugh,  turned  on  his  heel  and 
asked  the  first  girl  at  hand.  She  was  a  little  dark  girl 
who  had  been  sitting  looking  at  him,  but  now  when  he 
spoke  to  her,  she  turned  pale  and  drew  back.  He  looked 
down,  leaned  slightly  over  her,  and  whispered,  "  Won't 
you  dance  with  wc,  Kari  ?  "  She  did  not  answer.  He 
repeated  his  question,  and  then  she  replied,  also  in  a 
whisper,  "  That  dance  might  go  further  than  I  wished." 
He  drew  back  slowly  ;  but  when  he  reached  the  middle 
of  the  room,  he  made  a  quick  turn,  and  danced  the  Jial- 
ling*  alone,  while  the  rest  looked  on  in  silence. 

Afterwards,  he  went  away  into  the  barn,  lay  down, 
and  wept. 

Alargit  stayed  at  home  with  little  Arne.  When  she 
heard  how  Nils  rushed  from  dancing-party  to  dancing- 
joarty,  slie  looked  at  tlic  child  and  wept,  but  then  she 
looked  at  him  once  more  and  was  liappy.  The  first 
name  she  tauglit  him  to  say  was,  father;  buL  this  she 
dared  not  do  wlien  the  mother,  or  tlie  grandmother,  as 
she  \vas  now  called,  was  near  ;  antl  so  it  came  to  pass 
that   the   little    one    called    the    grandmother,    "  Father." 


*  The  /Hilling;  \s  a  Norwegian  national  dance,  of  which  a  de- 
scription is  given  on  pp.  20,  21.  —  Translators. 


l8  ARNE. 

Margit  took  great  pains  to  break  him  of  this,  and  thus 
she  caused  an  early  thoughtfuhicss  in  him.  He  was  but 
a  Httle  fellow  when  he  learned  that  Nils,  the  tailor,  was 
his  father ;  and  just  when  he  came  to  tlie  age  when 
children  most  love  strange,  romantic  things,  he  also 
learned  what  sort  of  man  Nils  was.  But  the  grand- 
mother had  strictly  forbidden  the  very  mention  of  his 
name  ;  her  mind  was  set  only  upon  extending  Kampen 
and  making  it  tlieir  own  property,  so  that  Margit  and 
the  boy  might  be  independent.  Taking  advantage  of 
the  landowner's  poverty,  she  bought  the  place,  paid  off 
part  of  the  purchase-money  every  year,  and  managed 
her  farm  like  a  man  ;  for  she  had  been  a  widow  fourteen 
years.  Under  her  care,  Kampen  had  been  extended  till 
it  could  now  feed  four  cows,  sixteen  sheep,  and  a  horse 
of  which  she  was  joint  owner. 

Meantime,  Nils,  the  tailor,  continued  to  go  about  work- 
ing in  the  parish  ;  i)ut  he  had  less  to  do  than  formerly, 
partly  because  he  was  less  attentive  to  hib  trade,  and 
partly  because  he  was  not  so  well  liked.  Then  he  took 
to  going  out  oftener  to  plav  tlie  fiddle  at  parties  ;  this 
gave  him  more  opportunities  for  drinking,  and  thus  came 
more  fighting  and  miserable  days. 

One  winter  day,  when  Arne  was  about  six  years  old, 
he  was  j)laying  on  the  bed,  where  he  had  set  up  the 
coverlet  for  a  boat-sail,  while  lie  sat  steering  with  a  ladle. 
The  grandmother  sat  in  the  room  spinning,  busy  \vith 
her  own  tlunights,  and  every  now  and  tlien  nodding,  as 
though  in  afiirmation  of  her  own  conclusions.  I'hen  the 
boy  knew  she  was  taking  no  notice  of  him  ;  and  so  he 
sang,  just  as  he  had  learned  it,  a  wild,  rough  song  about 
Nils,  the  tailor  :  — 

"Unless  'twas  only  yesterday,  hitlier  first  you  cnine, 
You've  surely  heard  already  of  Nils,  the  tailor's  fame. 


A    CLOUDY    DAWN.  I9 

Unless  'twas  but  this  morning,  you  came  among  us  first, 
You've  heard  how  he  knocked  over  tall  Johan  Knutson  Kirst; 

How  in  his  famous  barn-fight  with  Ola  Stor-Johann, 

Me  said,  'Bring  down  your  porridge  when  we  two  fight  again.' 

That  fighting  fellow,  Bugge,  a  famous  man  was  he : 
Ilis  name  was  known  all  over  fiord  and  fell  and  sea. 

'Now,  choose  the  place,  you  tailor,  where  I  shall  knock  you 

down  ; 
And  then  I'll  spit  upon  it,  and  there  I'll  lay  your  crown.* 

'Ah,  only  come  so  near,  I  may  catch  your  scent,  my  man; 
Your  bragging  hurts  nobody;  don't  dream  it  ever  can.' 

The  first  round  was  a  poor  one,  and  neither  man  could  beat; 
But  both  kept  in  their  places,  and  steady  on  their  feet. 

The  second  round,  poor  Bugge  was  beaten  black  and  blue. 
'Little  Bugge,  are  you  tired?     It's  going  hard  with  you.' 

The  third  round,  Bugge  tumbled,  and  bleeding  there  he  lay. 
'Now,  Bugge,  Where's  your  bragging  ?'     'Bad  luck  to  me  to- 
day!'" 

This  was  all  the  boy  sanj^  ;  but  there  were  two  verses 
more  which  the  mother  had  never  tau<2^ht  him.  The 
grandmother  knew  these  last  verses  only  too  well  ;  and 
she  remembered  them  all  the  better  because  tlie  boy  did 
not  sing  them.  She  said  nothing  to  him,  however,  but 
to  the  mother,  she  said,  "  It"  vou  think  it  well  to  teach 
him  the  first  verses,  don't  forget  to  teach  him  the  last 
ones,  too." 

Nils,  the  tailor,  was  so  broken  down  by  his  drinking, 
that  he  was  not  like  the  same  man  ;  and  people  began  to 
say  he  would  soon  be  utterlv  ruined. 

About  this  time  a  wetlding  was  celebrated  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, and  two  American  gentlemen,  who  were  visit- 
ing near,  came  to  witness  it,  as  they  wished  to  sec  the 


20  ARXE. 

customs  of  the  country.  Nils  played ;  and  the  two 
gentlemen  each  gave  a  dollar  for  him,  and  then  asked 
for  the  hailing.  But  no  one  came  forward  to  dance  it ; 
and  several  begged  Nils  himself  to  come  :  "  After  all,  he 
was  still  the  best  dancer,"  they  said.  He  refused  ;  but 
their  request  became  still  more  urgent,  and  at  last  all  in 
the  room  joined  in  it.  This  was  just  what  he  wanted  ; 
and  at  once  he  handed  his  fiddle  to  another  man,  took 
oft'  his  jacket  and  cap,  and  stepped  smilingly  into  the 
middle  of  the  room.  They  all  came  round  to  look  at 
him,  just  as  they  used  to  do  in  his  better  days,  and  this 
gave  him  back  his  old  strength.  They  crowded  closely 
together,  those  farthest  back  standing  on  tables  and 
benches.  Several  of  the  girls  stood  higher  than  all  the 
rest;  and  the  foremost  of  them  —  a  tall  girl,  with  briglit 
auburn  hair,  blue  eyes,  deeply  set  under  a  high  forehead, 
and  thin  lips,  which  often  smiled  and  then  drew  a  little 
to  one  side  —  was  Birgit  Buen  :  Nils  caught  her  eye  as 
he  glanced  upwards  at  the  beam.  The  music  struck  up  ; 
a  deep  silence  ensued  ;  and  he  began.  lie  squatted  on 
the  floor,  and  hopped  side\vards  in  time  with  the  music  ; 
swung  from  one  side  to  another,  crossed,  and  uncrossed 
his  legs  under  him  several  times  ;  sprang  up  again,  and 
stood  as  thcnigh  he  were  going  to  take  a  leap  ;  but  then 
shirked  it,  and  went  on  hopping  sidewards  as  before. 
The  fiddle  was  skilfully  played,  and  the  tune  became 
more  and  m(jre  exciting.  Nils  gradually  threw  his  head 
backwardcr.  and  then  suddenly  kicked  the  Ijcam,  scatter- 
ing the  du.^t  from  the  ceiling  down  ui)ou  the  people 
below.  'J'he\-  laughed  and  sliouted  round  liim,  and  tlie 
girls  stood  almoht  breathless.  The  sound  of  the  violin 
rose  high  above  the  noise,  stimulating  him  by  still  wilder 
notes,  and  he  did  not  resist  their  influence.  He  bent 
forward  ;   hopped  in  time  with  the  music ;   stood  up  as 


A    CLOUDY    DAWN.  21 

though  he  were  going  to  take  a  leap,  but  shirked  it, 
swung  from  one  side  to  the  other  as  before  ;  and  just 
when  he  looked  as  if  he  had  not  the  least  thought  of 
leaping,  leaped  up  and  kicked  the  beam  again  and  again. 
Next  he  turned  somersaults  forwards  and  backwards, 
coming  upon  his  feet  firmly,  and  standing  up  quite 
straight  each  time.  Then  he  suddenly  left  off;  and  the 
tunc,  after  running  through  some  wild  variations,  died 
away  in  one  long,  deep  note  on  the  bass.  The  crowd 
dispersed,  and  an  animated  conversation  in  loud  tones 
followed  the  silence.  Nils  leaned  against  the  wall ;  and 
the  American  gentlemen,  with  their  interpreter,  went 
over  to  him,  each  giving  him  five  dollars.  Once  more 
all  were  silent. 

The  Americans  said  a  fevr  words  aside  to  their  inter- 
preter, who  then  asked  Nils  whether  he  would  go  with 
them  as  their  servant.  "Where?"  Nils  asked,  while 
the  people  crowded  round  as  closely  as  possible.  "  Out 
into  the  world,"  was  the  answer.  "  When?"  Nils  asked, 
as  he  looked  round  him  with  a  bright  face  ;  his  eyes  fell 
on  Birgit  Bocn,  and  he  did  not  take  them  off  again.  "  In 
a  week's  time  when  they  come  back  here,"  answered  the 
interpreter.  "  Well,  perhaps  I  may  then  be  read},"  said 
Nils,  weighing  his  ten  dollars,  and  trembling  so  violently, 
that  a  man  on  whose  shoulder  he  was  resting  one  arm, 
asked  him  to  sit  down. 

''  Oil,  it's  nothing,"  he  answered,  and  he  took  a  few 
faltering  steps  across  the  floor,  tlien,  some  firmer  ones, 
turned  round,  and  asked  for  a  springing-dance. 

The  girls  stood  foremost  in  the  circle.  He  looked 
slowly  round,  and  then  went  straight  over  to  one  in  a 
dark  colored  skirt:  it  was  Birgit  Boen.  lie  stretched 
forth  liis  hand,  and  she  gave  both  hers ;  but  he  drew 
back  with  a  laugh,  took  out  a  girl  who  stood  next,  and 


22  ARNE. 

danced  off  gaily.  Birgit's  face  and  neck  flushed  crimson  ; 
and  in  a  moment  a  tall,  mild-looking  man,  who  was 
standing  behind  her,  took  her  hand  and  danced  away 
with  her  just  after  Nils.  He  saw  them,  and  whether 
purposely  or  not,  pushed  against  them  so  violently  that 
they  both  fell  heavily  to  the  floor.  Loud  cries  and  laugh- 
ter were  heard  all  round.  Birgit  rose,  went  aside,  and 
cried  bitterly. 

Her  partner  rose  more  slowly,  and  went  straight  over 
to  Nils,  who  was  still  dancing  :  "  You  must  stop  a  little," 
he  said.  Nils  did  not  hear ;  so  the  other  man  laid  hold 
on  his  arm.  He  tore  himself  away,  looked  at  the  man, 
and  said  with  a  smile,  "  I  don't  know  you." 

"  P'r'aps  not ;  but  now  I'll  let  you  know  who  I  am," 
said  the  man,  giving  him  a  blow  just  over  one  eye.  Nils 
was  quite  unprepared  for  this,  and  fell  heavily  on  the 
sharp  edge  of  the  fireplace.  He  tried  to  rise,  but  he 
could  not :   his  spine  was  broken. 

At  Kampen,  a  change  had  taken  place.  Of  late  the 
grandmother  had  become  more  infirm,  and  as  she  felt 
her  strength  failing,  she  took  greater  pains  than  ever  to 
save  money  to  pay  off  the  remaining  debt  upon  the  farm. 
"  Then  you  and  the  Ixjy,"  she  used  to  say  to  Alargit, 
"  will  be  comforta1)ly  oil'.  And  mind,  if  ever  you  bring 
anybody  into  the  place  to  ruin  it  for  you,  I  shall  turn  in 
my  grave."  In  harvest-time,  she  had  the  great  satisfac- 
tion of  going  up  to  the  late  landowner's  house  with  the 
last  of  the  money  due  to  him  ;  and  happy  she  felt  when, 
seated  once  more  in  tlie  porch  at  home,  she  could  at  last 
say,  "  Now  it's  done."  But  in  that  same  hour  she  was 
seized  with  her  last  illness  ;  she  went  to  bed  at  once, 
and  rose  no  more.  Tvlargit  had  her  buried  in  the  church- 
yard, and  a  nice  headstone  was  set  over  her,  inscrilicd 
witli  her  name  and  age,  and  a  verse  from  one  of  Kingo's 


A    CLOUDY    DAWN.  23 

hymns.  A  fortniii^ht  after  her  burial,  her  black  Sunday 
gown  was  made  into  a  suit  of  clothes  for  the  boy;  and 
when  he  was  dressed  in  tlieni  he  became  as  <^rave  as 
even  the  grandmother  herself.  He  went  of  his  own 
accord  and  took  up  the  book  with  clasps  and  large  print 
from  which  she  used  to  read  and  sing  every  .Sunday  ;  he 
opened  it,  and  there  he  found  her  spectacles.  These  he 
had  never  been  allowed  to  touch  while  she  was  living; 
now  he  took  them  out  half  fearfully,  placed  them  over 
his  nose,  and  looked  down  through  them  into  the  book. 
All  became  hazy.  "How  strange  this  is,"  he  thought; 
"  it  was  through  them  grandmother  could  read  God's 
word  !  "  He  held  them  high  up  against  the  light  to  see 
what  was  the  matter,  and  —  tlie  spectacles  di'opjied  on 
the  floor,  broken  in  twenty  pieces. 

He  was  much  friglitened,  and  when  at  the  same  mo- 
ment the  door  opened,  he  felt  as  if  it  must  be  the  grand- 
mother herself  who  was  coming  in.  But  it  was  the 
mother,  and  behind  her  came  six  men,  wlio,  with  much 
stamping  and  noise,  brought  in  a  litter  which  they  placed 
in  the  middle  of  the  room.  The  door  was  left  open  so 
long  after  tliem,  that  the  room  grew  quite  cold. 

On  the  litter  lav  a  man  with  a  pale  face  and  dark  hair. 
The  mother  walked  to  and  fro  and  wept.  "  Be  careful 
h(AV  vou  lay  him  on  the  bed,"  she  said  imploringly, 
helping  them  herself.  But  all  the  while  the  men  were 
moving  him.  something  grated  beneath  their  feet.  "Ah, 
that's  only  grandmother's  spectacles,"  the  boy  thought; 
but  he  said  nothinof. 


24  ARXE. 


III. 

SEEING  AN  OLD  LOVE. 

TT  was,  as  we  have  said  before,  just  han^est-time.  A 
week  after  the  day  when  Nils  had  been  carried  into 
Margit  Kampen's  house,  the  American  gentlemen  sent 
him  word  to  get  ready  to  go  with  them.  He  was  just 
then  lying  writhing  under  a  violent  attack  of  pain  ;  and, 
clenching  his  teeth,  he  cried,  "  Let  them  go  to  the  devil !" 
Margit  remained  waiting,  as  if  she  had  not  received  any 
answer ;  he  noticed  this,  and  after  a  while  he  repeated, 
faintly  and  slowly,  "  Let  them  —  go." 

As  the  winter  advanced,  he  recovered  so  far  as  to  be 
able  to  get  up,  though  his  health  was  broken  for  life. 
The  first  day  he  could  get  up  he  took  his  iiddle  and  tuned 
it ;  but  it  excited  him  so  much  that  he  had  to  go  to  bed 
again.  lie  talked  very  little,  but  was  gentle  and  kind, 
and  soon  he  began  to  read  with  Arne,  and  to  take  in 
work.  Still  he  never  went  out ;  and  he  did  not  talk  to 
those  who  came  to  see  him.  At  first  ]Margit  used  to  tell 
him  the  news  of  the  parish,  but  it  made  him  gloomy, 
and  so  she  soon  left  off. 

W'lien  spring  came  he  and  Margit  often  sat  longer  tlian 
usual  talking  together  after  suj^pcr,  when  Ariie  had  l)ccn 
sent  to  bed.  Later  in  the  season  the  banns  oi  marriage 
were  published  for  them,  and  then  tliey  were  quietly 
married. 

lie  worked  on  the  firm,  and  managed  wiselv  and 
steadily  ;   and  Margit  said  to  Arne,  "  lie   is  industrious. 


SEEING    AN    OLD    LOVE.  2$ 

as  well  as  pleasant ;  now  you  must  be  obedient  and  kind, 
and  do  your  best  for  him." 

Margit  had  even  in  the  midst  of  her  trouble  remained 
tolerably  stout.  She  had  rosy  cheeks,  large  eyes,  sur- 
rounded by  dark  circles  which  made  them  seem  still 
larger,  full  lips,  and  a  round  face  ;  and  she  looked 
healthy  and  strong,  although  she  really  had  not  much 
strength.  Now,  she  looked  better  than  ever;  and  she 
always  sang  at  her  work,  just  as  she  used  to  do. 

Then  one  Simday  afternoon,  the  father  and  son  went 
out  to  see  how  things  were  getting  on  in  the  fields.  Arne 
ran  about,  shooting  with  a  bow  and  arrows,  which  the 
father  had  himself  made  for  him.  Thus,  they  went  on 
straiglit  towards  the  road  which  led  past  the  church,  and 
down  to  the  place  which  was  called  the  l)road  valley. 
When  they  came  there,  Nils  sat  down  on  a  stone  and 
fell  into  a  reverie,  while  Arne  went  on  shooting,  and 
running  for  his  arrows  along  the  road  in  the  direction  of 
the  church.  "  Only  not  too  far  away,"  Nils  said.  Just 
as  Arne  was  at  the  height  of  his  plav,  he  stopped,  listen- 
ing, and  called  out,  '•  Father,  I  hear  nuisic."  Nils,  too, 
listened  ;  and  they  heard  the  sound  of  violins,  sometimes 
drowned  by  loud,  wikl  shouts,  while  above  all  rose  the 
I'attling  of  wheels,  and  the  trampling  of  horses'  hoofs  : 
it  was  a  bridal  train  coming  home  from  the  clmrch. 
"Come  here,  lad,"  tlie  father  said,  in  a  tone  which  made 
Arne  feel  he  must  come  quickly.  The  father  had  risen 
hastily,  and  now  stood  hidden  behind  a  large  tree.  Arne 
followed  till  the  fatlier  called  out,  "•  Not  liere,  but  go 
yonder  I  "  Then  the  bov  ran  behind  an  elm-c(;psc.  l"he 
train  of  carriages  had  already  turned  the  corner  of  tlie 
birch-wood  ;  the  horses,  white  with  foam,  galloping  at  a 
furious  rate,  while  drunken  people  shouted  and  hallooed. 
The   father   and  Arne   counted   die   carriages    one    after 


26  ARNE. 

another :  there  were  fourteen.  In  the  first,  two  fiddlers 
were  sitting ;  and  the  wedding  tune  sounded  merrily- 
through  the  clear  air :  a  lad  stood  behind  driving.  In 
the  next  carriage  sat  the  bride,  with  her  crown  and 
ornaments  glittering  in  the  sunshine.  She  was  tall,  and 
when  she  smiled  her  mouth  drew  a  little  to  one  side  ; 
with  her  sat  a  mild-looking  man,  dressed  in  blue.  Then 
came  the  rest  of  the  carriages,  the  men  sitting  on  the 
women's  laps,  and  little  boys  behind ;  drunken  men 
riding  six  together  in  a  one-horse  carriage  ;  while  in  the 
last  sat  the  purveyor  of  the  feast,  with  a  cask  of  brandy 
in  his  arms.  They  drove  rapidly  past  Nils  and  Arne, 
shouting  and  singing  down  the  hill ;  while  behind  them 
the  breeze  bore  upwards,  through  a  cloud  of  dust,  the 
sound  of  the  violins,  the  cries,  and  tlie  rattling  of  the 
wheels,  at  first  loud,  then  fainter  and  fainter,  till  at  last 
i-t  died  away  in  the  distance.  Nils  remained  standing 
motionless  till  he  heard  a  little  rustling  behind  him  ;  then 
he  turned  round  :  it  was  Arne  stealing  forth  from  his 
hiding-place. 

"Who  was  it,  father.^"  he  asked;  but  then  he  started 
back  a  little,  for  Nils'  face  had  an  evil  look.  The  boy 
stood  silently,  waiting  for  an  answer  ;  but  he  got  none  ; 
and  at  last,  becoming  impatient,  he  ventured  to  ask, 
"  Arc  we  going  now.'' "  Nils  was  still  standing  motif)n- 
Icss,  lo(jking  dreamilv  in  the  direction  where  the  bridal 
train  liad  gone  ;  then  he  collected  himself,  and  walked 
homewards.  Arne  followed,  and  once  more  began  to 
shoot  and  to  run  after  his  arnnvs.  "  Don't  trample  down 
the  meadow,"  said  Nils  abruptlv.  The  bov  let  the  arrow 
lie  and  came  back  ;  l)ut  soon  he  forgot  the  warning,  and, 
while  the  fatlier  once  more  stood  still,  he  lay  down  to 
make  somersaults.  "  Don't  trample  down  the  meadow, 
I  say,"  repeated  Nils,  seizing  his  arm  and  snatching  him 


SEEING    AN    OLD    LOVE.  2*] 

up  by  it  almost  violently  enough  to  sprain  it.     Then  the 
boy  went  on  silently  behind  him. 

At  the  door  Margit  stood  waiting  for  them.  She  had 
just  come  from  the  cow-house,  where  it  seemed  she  had 
been  working  hard,  for  her  hair  was  rough,  her  linen 
soiled,  and  her  dress  untidy  ;  but  she  stood  in  the  door- 
way smiling.  "  Red-side  has  calved,"  she  said  ;  "  and 
never  in  all  my  life  did  I  see  such  a  great  calf."  Away 
rushed  Arnc. 

'-  I  think  you  might  make  yourself  a  little  tidy  of 
a  Sunday,"  said  Nils  as  he  went  past  her  into  the 
room. 

"  Yes,  now  the  work's  done,  there'll  be  time  for  dress- 
ing," answered  Margit,  following  him  :  and  she  began 
to  dress,  singing  meanwhile.  Margit  now  sang  very 
well,  though  sometimes  her  voice  was  a  little  hoai^se. 

"  Leave  ofl'  that  screaming,"  said  Nils,  throwing  him- 
self upon  the  bed.  Margit  left  otf.  Then  the  boy  came 
bustling  in,  all  out  of  breath.  '•'•  The  calf,  the  calf's  got 
red  marks  on  each  side  and  a  spot  on  the  forehead,  just 
like  his  mother." 

,  "  Hold  vour  tongue,  boy  !  "  cried  Nils,  putting  down 
one  of  his  feet  fn)m  the  bed.  and  stamping  on  the  lloor. 
"The  deuce  is  in  that  bustling  boy,"  he  growled  out, 
drawing  u])  his  foot  again. 

''  ^'ou  can  see  very  well  father's  out  of  spirits  to-day," 
the  mother  said  to  Arnc,  by  wav  of  warning.  ''  Shouldn't 
vou  like  some  strong  cotlee  with  treacle?"  she  then  said, 
turning  to  Nils,  trving  to  drive  away  liis  ill-temper. 
Coffee  witli  treacle  had  been  a  favorite  drink  \\ith  tlie 
grandmother  and  ]Margit,  and  Arne  liked  it  too.  But 
Nils  never  liked  it,  though  he  used  to  take  it  with  the 
others.  ''  Shouldn't  vou  like  some  strong  coffee  with 
treacle?"    Margit  asked   again,   for   he   did    not    answer 


28  ARNE. 

the  fii'st  time.  Now,  lie  raised  himself  on  his  elbows, 
and  cried  in  a  loud,  harsh  voice,  "  Do  you  think  I'll  guz- 
zle that  filthy  stuft'?" 

Margit  was  thunder-struck  ;  and  she  went  out,  taking 
the  boy  with  her. 

They  had  several  things  to  do  out-doors,  and  they  did 
not  come  in  till  supper-time  ;  then  Nils  had  gone.  Arne 
was  sent  out  into  the  field  to  call  him,  but  could  not  find 
him  anywhere.  They  waited  till  the  supper  was  nearly 
cold  ;  but  Nils  had  not  come  even  when  it  was  finished. 
Then  Margit  grew  fidgety,  sent  Arne  to  bed,  and  sat 
down,  waiting.  A  little  past  midnight  Nils  came  home. 
"Where  have  you  been,  dear.'"'  she  asked. 

"  That's  no  business  of  yours,"  he  answered,  seating 
himself  slowly  on  the  bench.     He  was  drunk. 

From  that  time  he  often  went  out  into  the  parisli  ;  and 
he  was  always  drunk  when  he  came  back.  '•  I  can't  bear 
stopping  at  home  with  you,"  he  once  said  when  he  came 
in.  She  gently  tried  to  plead  her  cause  ;  but  he  stamped 
on  the  floor,  and  bade  her  be  silent.  Was  he  drunk, 
then  it  was  her  fault ;  was  lie  wicked,  that  was  her  fault, 
too  ;  had  he  become  a  cripple  and  an  unlucky  man  for 
all  his  life,  then,  again,  she  and  that  cursed  boy  of  hers 
were  the  cause  of  it.  "  Why  were  you  always  dangling 
after  me?"  he  said,  blubbering.  "What  harm  had  I 
done  you  ? " 

"  (jod  liclp  and  bless  me  !  "  Margit  answered,  "  was  it 
I  tliat  ran  after  vou  r  " 

"Yes,  that  v(ni  did,"  he  cried,  raising  liimself;  and, 
still  l)lubl)criiig,  he  continued,  "Now,  at  hist,  it  lias  turned 
out  just  as  you  wouhl  have  it:  I  th'ag  along  here  chiy 
after  day  —  everv  day  looking  on  my  own  grave.  But 
I  might  have  lived  in  splendor  with  the  first  girl  in  the 
parish  ;   I  might  have  travelled  as  far  as  tlie  sun  ;    if  you 


SEEING   AN    OLD    LOVE.  2^ 

and  that  cursed  boy  of  yours  hadn't  put  yourselves  in  my 

Again  she  tried  to  defend  herself:  "It  isn't  the  boy's 
fault,  at  any  rate." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  or  I'll  strike  you ! "  and  he  did 
strike  her. 

The  next  day,  when  he  had  slept  himself  sober,  he  felt 
ashamed,  and  would  especially  be  kind  to  the  boy.  But 
he  was  soon  drunk  again  ;  and  then  he  beat  Margit.  At 
last  he  beat  her 'almost  every  time  he  was  drunk;  Arne 
then  cried  and  fretted,  and  so  he  beat  him,  too  ;  but  often 
he  was  so  miserable  afterwards  that  he  felt  obliged  to  go 
out  again  and  take  some  more  spirits.  At  this  time,  too, 
he  began  once  more  to  set  his  mind  on  going  to  dancing- 
parties.  He  played  at  them  just  as  he  used  to  do  before 
his  illness ;  and  he  took  Arne  with  him  to  carry  the 
fiddle-case.  At  these  parties  the  child  saw  and  heard 
much  which  was  not  good  for  him  ;  and  the  mother  often 
wept  because  he  was  taken  there  :  still  she  dared  not  say 
anvthing  to  the  father  about  it.  But  to  the  child  she 
often  imploringly  said,  with  many  caresses,  "  Keep  close 
to  God,  and  don't  learn  anything  wicked."  But  at  the 
dancing-parties  there  was  very  much  to  amuse  him,  while 
at  home  witli  the  mother  there  was  very  little  ;  and  so  he 
turned  more  and  more  awav  froni  her  to  the  father  :  she 
saw  it,  but  was  silent.  lie  learned  many  songs  at  these 
parties,  and  he  used  to  sing  theni  to  the  father,  who  felt 
amused,  and  laughed  now  and  then  at  them.  This  flat- 
tered the  bov  so  much  that  he  set  himself  to  learn  as 
manv  songs  as  he  could  ;  and  soon  he  found  out  what  it 
was  tliat  tlie  father  liked,  and  that  made  him  laugh. 
When  there  was  nothing  of  this  kind  in  the  songs,  the 
boy  would  himself  put  something  in  as  well  as  he  could  ; 
and  thus  he  early  acquired  facility  in  setting  words   to 


30  ARNE. 

music.  But  lampoons  and  disgusting  stories  about  peo- 
ple who  had  risen  to  wealth  and  influence,  were  the  things 
which  the  father  liked  best,  and  which  the  ])oy  sang. 

The  mother  always  wished  him  to  go  witli  her  in  the 
cow-house  to  tend  the  cattle  in  the  evening.  He  used  to 
find  all  sorts  of  excuses  to  avoid  going ;  but  it  was  of  no 
use  ;  she  was  resolved  he  should  go.  There  she  talked 
;o  him  about  God  and  good  tilings,  and  generally  ended 
by  pressing  him  to  her  heart,  imploring  him,  with  many 
tears,  not  to  become  a  bad  man. 

Slie  helped  him,  too,  in  his  reading-lessons.  He  was 
extremely  quick  in  learning  ;  and  tlie  father  felt  proud  of 
him,  and  told  him  —  especially  when  he  was  drunk  — 
that  he  had  his  cleverness. 

At  dancing-parties,  when  the  father  was  drunk,  he  used 
often  to  ask  Arne  to  sing  to  the  people  ;  and  then  he 
would  sing  song  after  song,  amidst  their  loud  laughter 
and  applause.  This  pleased  hiin  even  more  than  it 
pleased  his  father  ;  and  at  last  he  used  to  sing  songs  with- 
out number.  Some  anxious  mothers  who  heard  this, 
came  to  Margit  and  told  her  about  it,  l)ecause  the  subjects 
of  the  songs  were  not  such  as  thev  ought  to  have  been. 
Then  she  called  the  boy  to  her  side,  and  forbade  him,  in 
the  name  of  God  and  all  that  was  good,  to  sing  such 
songs  any  more.  And  now  it  seemed  to  him  that  she 
was  alwavs  opposed  to  what  gave  him  pleasure  ;  aiid,  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  told  the  father  what  she  had 
said  ;  and  when  he  was  again  drunk  she  had  to  sutTer  for 
it  severclv :  till  then  he  had  not  spoken  of  it.  Then 
Arne  saw  clcarlv  how  wixjng  a  thing  he  had  done,  and 
in  the  depths  of  his  soul  he  asked  (iod  and  her  to  forgive 
him  ;  but  he  could  not  ask  it  in  words.  She  continued 
to  show  him  the  same  kindness  as  before,  and  it  pierced 
his  heart. 


SEEING    AN    OLD    LOVE.  3I 

Once,  however,  in  spite  of  all,  he  again  wronged  her. 
He  had  a  talent  for  mimicking  people,  especially  in  their 
speaking  and  singing;  and  one  evening,  while  he  was 
amusing  the  father  in  this  way,  the  mother  entered,  and, 
when  she  was  going  away,  the  father  took  it  into  his  head 
to  ask  him  to  mimic  her.  At  first  he  refused  ;  but  the 
father,  who  lay  on  the  bed  laughing  till  he  shook,  insisted 
upon  his  doing  it.  "  She's  gone,"  the  boy  thought,  "  and 
can't  hear  me  ;  "  and  he  mimicked  her  singing,  just  as  it 
was  when  her  voice  was  hoarse  and  obstructed  by  tears. 
The  father  laughed  till  the  boy  grew  quite  frightened 
and  at  once  left  oft'.  Then  the  mother  came  in  from  the 
kitchen,  looked  at  Arne  long  and  mournfully,  went  over 
to  the  shelf,  took  down  a  milk-dish  and  carried  it  away. 

He  felt  burning  hot  all  over:  she  had  heard  it  all.  He 
jumped  down  from  the  table  where  he  had  been  sitting, 
went  out,  threw  himself  on  the  ground,  and  wished  to 
hide  himself  for  ever  in  the  earth.  He  could  not  rest, 
and  he  rose  and  went  farther  from  the  house.  Passing 
bv  the  barn,  he  there  saw  his  mother  sitting,  making  a 
new  hne  shirt  for  him.  It  was  her  usual  habit  to  sing  a 
hymn  while  sewing:  now,  however,  she  was  silent. 
Tiien  ^-Vrne  could  bear  it  no  longer  ;  he  threw  himself  on 
the  grass  at  her  feet,  lof)ked  up  in  her  fice,  and  wept  and 
sobbed  bitterly.  Margit  let  fall  her  work,  and  took  his 
head  between   her  hands. 

'"  Poor  Arne  !  "  she  said,  putting  her  face  down  to  his. 
He  did  not  try  to  say  a  word,  but  wept  as  he  had  never 
wept  l)eforc.  "I  knew  vou  were  good  at  heart,"  she  said, 
stroking  his  head. 

*•  Alother,  you  mustn't  refuse  what  I  am  now  going  to 
ask,"  \vere  the  first  words  he  was  able  to  utter. 

''You  know  I  never  do  refuse  you,"  answered  she. 

He  tried  to  stop  his  tears,  and  then,  with   his   face   still 


32  ARNE. 

in  her  lap,  he  stammered  out,  "  Do  sing  a  Httle  for  me, 
mother." 

"  You  know  I  can't  do  it,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Sing  something  for  me,  mother,"  implored  the  boy ; 
"  or  I  shall  never  have  courage  to  look  you  in  the  face 
again."  She  went  on  stroking  his  hair,  but  was  silent. 
"  Do  sing,  mother  dear,"  he  implored  again  ;  "  or  I  shall 
go  far  away,  and  never  come  back  any  more."  Though 
he  was  now  almost  fifteen  years  old,  he  lay  there  witli  his 
head  in  his  mother's  lap,  and  she  began  to  sing : 

"Merciful  Father,  take  in  tlij  care 

The  child  as  he  plays  by  the  shore; 
Send  him  Thy  Holy  Spirit  there, 

And  leave  him  alone  no  more. 
Slipp'ry's  the  way,  and  high  is  the  tide; 
Still  if  Thou  keepest  close  by  his  side 
He  never  will,  drown,  but  live  for  Thee, 
And  then  at  the  last  Thy  heaven  will  see. 

Wondering  where  her  child  is  astray, 

The  mother  stands  at  the  cottage  door, 
Calls  him  a  hilindred  times  i'  the  day. 

And  fears  he  will  coine  no  more. 
But  then  she  thinks,  whatever  betide, 
The  Spirit  of  God  will  be  his  Guide, 
And  Christ  the  blessed,  his  little  Brother, 
Will  carry  him  back  to  his  longing  mother." 

Slic  sang  some  more  verses.  Arne  lay  still ;  a  blessed 
peace  came  over  him,  and  under  its  soothing  influence  he 
slept.  Tlie  last  word  he  heard  distinctly  was,  "  Christ;" 
it  transported  liiin  into  regions  of  light ;  and  he  fancied 
that  he  listened  to  a  cliorus  of  voices,  l)ut  his  mother's 
voice  was  clearer  than  all.  vSweeter  tones  he  had  never 
heard,  and  he  praved  to  be  allowed  to  sing  in  like  man- 
ner :  and  then  at  once  he  began,  gently  and  softly,  and 


SEEIXG    AN    OLD    LOVE.  33 

still  more  softly,  until  his  bliss  became  rapture,  and  then 
suddenly  all  disappeared.  lie  awoke,  looked  about  him, 
listened  attentively,  but  heard  nothing  save  the  little  riv- 
ulet which  flowed  past  the  barn  with  a  low  and  constant 
murmur.  The  mother  was  gone  ;  but  she  had  placed  the 
half-made  shirt  and  his  jacket  under  his  head. 


34  ARXE. 


IV. 

THE    UNLAMENTED   DEATH. 

WHEN  now  the  time  of  year  came  for  the  cattle  to 
be  sent  into  the  wood,  Arne  wished  to  '^o  to  tend 
tlieni.  But  the  father  opposed  him  :  indeed,  he  had  never 
gone  before,  though  he  was  now  in  his  fifteentli  }"ear. 
But  lie  pleaded  so  well,  that  his  wish  was  at  last  complied 
with  ;  and  so  during  the  spring,  summer,  and  autumn,  he 
passed  the  whole  day  alone  in  the  wood,  and  onlv  came 
home  to  sleep. 

He  took  his  Iwoks  up  there,  and  read,  carved  letters  in 
the  bark  of  the  trees,  thought,  longed,  and  sang.  Hut 
when  in  the  evening  he  came  home  and  found  the  father 
often  drunk  and  beating  the  mother,  cursing  her  and  the 
whole  parish,  and  saving  how  once  he  might  lune  gone 
far  awav,  then  a  longing  for  travelling  arose  in  the  lad's 
mind.  There  was  no  comfnt  for  him  at  home  :  ami  his 
books  made  his  thoughts  travel  ;  nay,  it  seemed  s'unc- 
times  as  if  the  very  breeze  bore  them  on  its  wings  far 
away. 

Then,  about  midsummer,  he  met  with  Christian,  the 
Captain's  eldest  son,  who  one  day  came  to  the  wood  with 
the  ser\ant  bov.  to  catch  the  horses,  and  to  i^ide  thcni 
home.  lie  was  a  few  vears  older  than  v\rne.  light- 
jiearted  and  jollv,  restless  in  mind,  but  ne\ertheless  strong 
in  purpose  ;  he  spoke  fast  and  abruptU'.  and  gencrallv 
about  two  things  at  once  :  shot  birds  in  their  flight;  rode 
l)are-backed    horses ;     went    tlv-ilshing ;     and    alt(^get]ier 


THE    UM.AMENTED    DEATH.  35 

seemed  to  Arne  the  paragon  of  perfection.  He,  too,  had 
set  his  mind  upon  travelHng,  and  he  talked  to  Arne  about 
foreign  countries  till  they  shone  like  fairy-lands.  He 
found  out  Arne's  love  for  reading,  and  he  carried  up  to 
him  all  the  books  he  had  read  himself;  on  Sundays  he 
taught  him  geography  from  maps:  and  during  the  whole 
of  that  suuuncr  Arne  read  till  he  became  pale  antl  thin. 

Even  when  the  winter  came,  he  was  permitted  to  read 
at  home  ;  partly  because  he  was  going  to  be  conlirmed 
the  next  year,  and  partlv  because  he  ahva\s  knew  how 
to  manage  with  his  father.  lie  also  l)egan  to  go  to 
school ;  but  while  there  it  seemed  to  him  he  never  got  on 
so  well  as  when  he  shut  his  eyes  and  thought  over  the 
things  in  his  books  at  home  :  and  he  no  longer  had  any 
companions  among  the  boys  of  the  parish. 

The  father's  bodily  infirmity,  as  well  as  his  passion  for 
drinking,  increased  with  his  years  ;  and  he  treated  his 
wife  worse  and  worse.  And  while  Arne  sat  at  home  try- 
ing to  amuse  him,  and  often,  merely  to  keep  peace  for  the 
mother,  telling  things  which  he  now  despised,  a  hatred 
of  his  father  grew  up  in  his  heart.  But  there  he  kept  it 
secretl}',  just  as  he  kept  his  love  for  his  mother.  Even 
when  he  happenetl  to  meet  Christian,  he  said  nothing  to 
him  about  home  affairs;  but  all  their  talk  ran  upon  their 
books  and  their  intended  tra\els.  But  often  when,  after 
those  wide  roaming  conversations,  he  was  returning  honie 
alone,  thinking  of  what  he  perhaps  would  h.a\e  to  see 
when  he  arri\"ed  there,  he  wept  and  praved  tliat  (jod 
would  talce  care  he  nn'ght  soon  be  allowed  to  go  awav. 

In  tlie  summer  he  and  Christian  were  confu'ined  ;  anel 
soon  aiterwartls  the  latter  carried  out  his  purj^ose  of  trav- 
elling. ^\t  last,  he  pre\ailed  upon  his  father  to  let  him 
be  a  sailor:  and  he  wenl  far  awav  :  first  giving  .\riie  his 
books,  and  promising  to  write  often  to  him. 


36  AKXE. 

Then  Anic  was  left  alone. 

About  this  time  a  wish  to  make  songs  awoke  again  in 
his  mind  ;  and  now  he  no  longer  patched  old  songs,  but 
made  new  ones  for  himself,  and  said  in  them  whatever 
most  pained  him. 

But  soon  his  heart  l)ecame  too  heavy  to  let  him  make 
songs  an\'  more,  lie  la}'  sleepless  whole  nights,  feeling 
that  he  could  not  bear  to  stay  at  home  an\-  longer,  and 
that  he  must  go  far  away,  find  out  Christian,  and  —  not 
sav  a  word  about  it  to  any  one.  Hut  when  he  thought  of 
the  mother,  and  what  would  become  of  her,  he  could 
scarcelv  look  her  in  the  face  ;  and  his  love  made  him 
linger  still. 

One  e\ening  when  it  was  growing  late.  Arne  sat  read- 
ing: indeed,  when  he  felt  more  sad  than  usual  he  alwavs 
took  refuge  in  his  books;  little  undei"Standing  that  they 
onlv  increased  his  burden.  The  father  had  gone  to  a 
wedding  partw  but  was  expected  home  that  e\ening; 
the  mothei".  wearv  and  afraid  of  him,  had  gone  to  bed. 
Then  Arne  was  startled  bv  the  sound  of  a  hea\'y  fall  in 
the  passage,  and  of  something  hard  pushing  against  the 
door.      It  was  the  fatlier.  just  coming  home. 

'•  Is  it  \()U.  mv  clever  bo\- ?  "  he  muttered  ;  "come  and 
hel])  \our  fither  to  get  up."  Arne  lielped  him  u]:).  and 
brought  him  to  tl)e  bencli  ;  then  carried  in  the  \  ioliu-casc 
aftrr  him.  and  shut  the  door.  '•  Well,  look  at  me.  \ou 
cle\cr  bo\- :  I  don't  look  \ery  haudsoiue  n(»w:  Xils.  tlie 
tailor's  no  longci'  (he  man  he  used  to  1)e.  One  thing  I  — 
tell  —  vou  —  \ou  shall  never  drink  spirits;  thev're  —  the 
devil,  the  world,  and  the  llesh.  .  .  .  '  Cjod  resisteth  the 
IM'oud.  but  gi\(.th  grace  to  the  humble.'  .  .  .  Oh  dear! 
(>h  dear  I  —  I  low  far  gone  I  am  !  " 

He  sat  silent  f(;r  a  Nvhile,  and  then  sang  in  a  tearful 
voice, 


THE    UXLAMENTED    DEATH.  37 

"Merciful  Lord,  I  come  to  Thee; 
Help,  if  there  can  be  help  for  me; 
Though  bv  the  mire  of  sin  defiled, 
I'm  still  Thine  own  dear  ransomed  child." 

"  '  Lord,  I  am  not  \vortliy  that  Thou  sliouklcst  come 
under  niv  roof;  but  sj^cak  the  word  only  .  .  .  '"  lie 
threw  himself  tbrward.  hid  his  face  in  his  hands,  and 
sol)lied  violently.  Then,  after  l}'in<2,-  thus  a  lonc^;  while, 
he  said,  word  for  word  out  of  the  Scriptures,  just  as  he 
had  learned  it  more  than  twenty  years  a;j^o,  '"  '  Ikit  he 
ans\s'ered  and  said,  I  ani  not  sent  but  unto  the  lost  sheep 
of  the  house  of  Israel.  Then  came  she  and  worshipped 
him.  saving".  Lord,  help  me.  But  he  answered  and  said, 
It  is  Tiot  meet  to  take  the  children's  breath  and  to  cast  it 
to  doo-s.  And  she  said,  Truth,  Lord:  vet  the  do;j;s  eat 
of  the  crumbs  which  fall  from  their  master's  table.'  " 

Then  he  was  silent,  and  his  weepini^  became  subdued 
and  calm. 

The  mother  had  been  loni:^  awake,  Nvithout  looking-  up  ;• 
but  no\v  when  she  heard  him  weepini^  thus  like  one  who 
is  saved,   slie    raised    herself  on    her   elbows,   and    ^'a/.ed 
carnestlv  at  him. 

I)Ut  scarceh'  did  Nils  perceive  her  before  he  called  out, 
"Are  you  looking-  up,  \'ou  ul;-1v  vixen  I  I  suppose  \(ni 
would  like  to  see  \\!iat  a  .state  \i)u  lia\e  brought  me  to. 
Well,  so  1  look,  iust  sol"  .  .  .  lie  rose;  anil  slie  hid 
herself  under  the  t'ur  coxerlet.  "  \a\',  don't  hide.  I'm 
sure  to  tind  \'()u."  he  said,  stretching  out  liis  ri^'lll  liantl 
and  tumbling-  with  his  foretin^'ei"  on  tlie  betl-clothes, 
••  d'ickle.  tickle."  he  said,  turnint;-  aside  the  fiu'  co\"erlet, 
and  putting-  his  foi'elin^er  on  her  throat. 

'•  Father  I  "  cried  Arne. 

"How  shri\'elled  and  thin  \'ou'\e  become  alreadv, 
there's  no  depth  of  ilesh   here!"      v^he  Avritlied  beneath 


3$  ARXE. 

his  touch,  and  seized  his  hand  with  both  hers,  but  could 
not  free  herself. 

'•  Father  !  "  repeated  Arne. 

"Well  at  last  you're  roused.  How  she  wriggles,  the 
ugly  thing !  Can't  you  scream  to  make  believe  I  am 
beating  you?  Tickle,  tickle  !  I  only  want  to  take  awa}' 
vom'  Ijreath." 

••  Father !"  Arne  said  once  more,  running  to  the  cor- 
ner of  the  room,  and  snatching  up  an  axe  which  stood 
there. 

"  Is  it  onlv  out  of  pcrverscncss,  vou  don't  scream?  you 
had  better  beware  ;  for  I've  taken  sucli  a  strriuge  fancy 
into  mv  head.  Tickle,  tickle  !  Xow  I  think  1  shall 
soon  get  rid  of  tliat  screaming  of  \-ours." 

"Father!"  ^Vrne  shouted,  rushing  towards  liim  with 
the  axe  uplifted. 

But  l^eforc  Arne  coidd  reach  liim.  he  started  up  with 
a  piercing  cr\',  laid  his  liaiid  upon  his  heart,  and  fell 
heavily  down.  ••  Jesus  Christ  I  "  lie  muttered,  and  then 
lay  quite  still. 

Arne  stood  as  if  rof)ted  in  the  ground,  and  gradually 
lowered  the  axe.  lie  grew  dizzy  and  bewildered,  and 
scarceh'  ]-;ne\v  \vhere  he  was.  Then  the  moll'.er  began 
to  move  to  and  fro  in  the  bed.  and  to  breathe  hea\il\'.  as 
if  c>ppressed  In-  some  great  weight  King  upon  her.  .Arne 
saw  that  she  needed  hel))  ;  but  \et  he  felt  unable  to  ren- 
der it.  At  last  she  raised  herself  a  little,  and  saw  the 
father  King  stretched  on  t!ie  iloor.  and  .\rne  standing 
beside   him    with   the   axe. 

"Merciful  Lord,  what  have  you  done?"  she  cried, 
springing  ftut  f<f  the  bed.  putting  on  her  skirt  and  coming 
nearer. 

"He  fell  down  hliii'-elf,"  said  Arne,  at  last  regaining 
power  to  speak. 


THE    UXI-AMEXTED    DEATH. 


39 


"  Arnc,  Anic,  I  don't  believe  you,"  saitl  the  mother  in 
a  stern  reproachful  voice  :  "  now  Jesus  help  you  I  "  .Vnd 
she  threw  herself  upon  the  dead  man  with  loud  wailin<^. 

But  the  boy  awoke  from  his  stupor,  dropped  the  axe 
and  fell  down  on  his  knees :  '•  As  true  as  1  hope  for 
mercv  from  Ciod,  I've  not  done  it.  I  almost  thought  of 
doiu^'  it;  I  was  so  bewildered:  but  then  he  fell  down 
himself;    and  here   I've  been   standing'  ever  since." 

The  mother  looked  at  him.  and  believed  him.  '•  Then 
our  Lord  has  been  here  Himself."  she  said  ([uicth".  sittiui^ 
do\vn  on  the  lloor  and  ^'a/inij^  before  her. 

ISils  lay  quite  still",  with  open  eves  and  mouth,  and 
hands  drawn  near  to<;-ether.  as  thou^'h  he  had  at  the  last 
moment  tried  to  f)ld  them,  but  had  been  imable  to  do  so. 
The  first  thin^-  the  mother  now  did  A\"as  to  f)ld  them. 
"Let  us  look  closer  at  him,"  she  said  then.  <j;oin;4'  o\er  to 
the  lireplace,  where  the  lire  was  almcjst  out.  .\rne  fol- 
lowed her.  t"(jr  he  felt  afraid  of  standin*^  alone.  She  l^ave 
him  a  lii^hted  fir-splinter  to  hold;  then  she  once  more 
went  over  to  the  dead  bodv  and  stood  bv  one  side  of  it, 
while  the  son  stood  at  the  other,  leltiuL;-  the  li.^bl  fdl 
upon   it. 

•■  Yes.  lie's  ([uite  ^one."  she  said  ;  and  tlien.  alter  a 
little  \\Iiile.  she  continued,  "and  i^-one  in  an  e\  il  i'.our, 
Lm  afraid." 

Arne's  hands  trembk-d  so  iiuich  that  the  buruiu'j,'  ashes 
of  the  splinter  fell  upon  the  father's  clolhes  and  s,t  tbem 
on  lire;  but  the  bo\'  did  not  ])ercei\'e  it.  neither  did  thi' 
mother  at  first,  fir  slie  was  weepiu'j,'.  l^ut  soon  she 
became  awai'e  of  it  tlu'ou^'h  the  bad  smc-11.  and  she  cried 
out  in  fear.  \\'hcn  now  tlie  bov  looked,  it  -ecnied  to 
him  as  thoui;'h  the  fitlier  hin^elf  was  Inirnin'j,-.  and  he 
dropped  the  splinter  upon  him.  sinkiuL,'-  down  in  a  swoon. 
L^p  and  down,  and  round  and  round,  the   room    moveil 


40 


ARXE. 


with  liim  ;  the  tabic  moved,  the  bed  moved  :  the  axe 
hewed  ;  the  father  rose  and  came  to  him  ;  and  then  all 
of  them  came  rolling  npon  him.  Then  he  felt  as  if  a 
soft  cooling  breeze  passed  over  his  face  :  and  he  cried  out 
and  awoke.  The  first  thing  he  did  was  to  look  at  the 
father,  to  assure  himself  that  he  still   lay  quietlv. 

And  a  feeling  of  inexpressible  happiness  came  over  the 
bov's  mind  when  he  saw  that  the  father  was  dead  —  really 
dead  :  and  he  rose  as  though  he  were  entering  upon  a 
new  life. 

Tie  mother  had  extinguished  the  burning  clothes,  and 
began  to  lay  out  the  body.  She  made  the  bed,  and  then 
said  to  Arne,  "Take  hold  of  3-our  father,  you're  so  strong, 
and  help  me  to  lay  him  nicely.'*'  They  laid  him  on  the 
bed.  and  ?vlargit  shut  his  e\es  and  mouth,  stretched  his 
limbs,   and  folded  his  hands  once  more. 

Then  thev  bc^th  stcnnl  looking  at  him.  It  was  only  a 
little  past  midniglit.  and  t]Te\"  had  to  stav  there  with  him 
till  morning.  Arne  made  a  good  lire,  and  the  mother 
sat  down  by  it.  ^\'hile  sitting  there,  she  looketl  back 
upon  tlie  manv  miserable  ckus  slie  liad  passed  with  Nils, 
and  she  thanked  God  for  taking  him  awav.  ••  Ikit  still 
I  had  some  happy  da\'s  with  him.  too."  she  said  after  a 
while. 

Arne  took  a  seat  opposite  licr  :  and.  turning  to  him. 
slie  went  on,  '"And  to  think  that  he  should  liavc  such  an 
end  as  tliis  !  even  if  he  has  not  lived  as  he  ouglit.  trulv 
he  has  sutlered  for  it."  She  wept,  looked  o\  er  to  tlie 
dead  man.  and  continued,  "•  But  now  (iod  grant  (  mav 
be  rej^aid  lor  all  I  liave  gone  tlu'ough  \\  itli  liiui.  Arne, 
you  nnist  remember  it  was  ibr  Nour  sake  1  sull'ered  it  all." 
The  bov  began  to  wee])  too.  '•  Theretbre,  you  must 
never  lea\e  me,"  she  sobbed  ;  ^'  you  are  now  my  only 
comfort." 


THE    UXLAMEXTED    DEATH.  4I 

"  I  never  will  leave  you  ;  that  I  promise  before  God," 
the  boy  said,  as  earnestly  as  if  he  had  thouj^ht  of  saying 
it  for  years.  He  felt  a  longing  to  go  over  to  lier  ;  yet  lie 
could  not. 

She  grew  calmer,  and,  looking  kindly  over  at  the  dead 
man,  she  said,  '•  After  all,  there  was  a  great  deal  of  good 
in  him  ;  but  the  world  dealt  hardly  bv  liim.  .  .  .  But 
now  he's  goiie  to  our  Lord,  and  He'll  l)e  kinder  to  him, 
I'm  sure."  Then,  as  if  she  had  been  following  out  this 
tlunight  within  herself,  she  added.  "  We  must  pra\-  for 
him.  If  1  could,  I  wouhl  sing  over  him  ;  but  \'ou.  Arne, 
have  such  a  fme  xoice,  }ou  must  go  and  sing  to  your 
father." 

^\rne  fetched  the  luinn-book  and  lighted  a  hr-splintcr  ; 
and.  hol(Hng  it  in  one  hand  and  the  I)ook  in  tlie  other, 
he  went  to  the  head  of  the  bed  and  sang  in  a  clear  voice 
Kingo's  i2yth  h\nm  : 

'•Regard  us  aijain  in  mercy,  O  God! 
And  turn  Thou  aside  Thy  terrihle  rod, 
Tliat  now  in  Thy  %vrath  laid  on  us  ^vc  sec 
To  chasten  us  sore  for  sin  against  Tliee." 


42 


V. 

''■HE  HAD  IN  HIS  MIND  A    SONG." 

\  RNE  was  now  in  his  twentieth  year.  Yet  he  con- 
-^-^  tinned  tending  the  cattle  upon  the  mountains  in 
the  summer,  while  in  the  winter  he  remained  at  home 
studying. 

About  this  time  the  clergyman  sent  a  message,  asking 
him  to  become  the  parish  schoohnaster,  and  saying  his 
gifts  and  knowledge  might  thus  be  made  useful  to  his 
neighbors.  Arne  sent  no  answer ;  but  tlie  next  day, 
while  he  was  driving  his  flock,  he  made  the  following 
verses : 

"  O.  my  pet  lamb,  lift  your  head, 
Though  a  stony  path  you  tread, 
Over  all  the  lonely  fells, 
Only  follow  still  your  bells. 

O,  my  pet  lainb,  -walk  with  care; 
Lest  you  spoil  your  wool,  beware  : 
Mother  now  must  soon  be  sewing 
New  lamb-skins,  for  summer's  going. 

O,  my  pet  lamb,  try  to  grow 
Fat  and  fine  wheie'er  you  go  : 
Know  you  not,  my  little  sweeting, 
A  spring-lamb  is  dainty  eating?'' 

One  day  he  happened  to  overhear  a  conversation  be- 
tween his  mother  and  tlie  late  owner  of  tlie  place  :  tliey 
were  at  odds  abotit  tl:e  horse  of  which  they  were  joint- 
owners.      "  I  must  wait  and  hear  what  Arne  says,"  inter- 


"  HE    HAD    IN    HIS    MIND    A    SONG.  43 

posed  the  motlicr.  "  That  sluggard  ! "  the  man  exchiimcd  ; 
"  he  would  like  the  horse  to  ramble  about  in  the  wood, 
just  as  he  does  himself."  Then  the  mother  became  silent, 
though  before  she  had  been  pleading  her  cause  well. 

Arne  flushed  crimson.  That  his  mother  had  to  bear 
people's  jeers  on  his  account,  never  before  occurred  to 
liim,  and,  "  Perhaps  she  had  borne  many,"  he  thought. 
"But  why  had  she  not  told  him  of  it.-^"  he  thought 
again. 

lie  turned  the  matter  over,  and  then  it  came  into  his 
mind  that  the  mother  scarcely  ever  talked  to  him  at  all. 
But,  then,  he  scarcely  ever  talked  to  her  either.  But, 
after  all.  whom  did  he  talk  much  to? 

Often  on  Sundays,  when  he  was  sitting  quietly  at  home, 
he  would  liave  liked  to  read  the  sermon  to  his  mother, 
whose  eves  were  ^veak,  for  she  had  wept  too  nuich  in  her 
time.  Still,  he  did  not  read  it.  Often,  too,  on  weekdays, 
when  she  ^vas  sitting  down,  and  he  tliought  the  time 
miglit  hang  heavy,  he  Avould  liave  liked  to  ofler  to  read 
some  of  his  own  books  to  her:   still,  he  did  not. 

"  Well,  never  mind,"  thought  he  :  "  I'll  soon  leave  off 
tending  the  cattle  on  the  rnoimtains  ;  and  then  I'll  be 
more  witli  motlier."  He  let  this  resolve  ripen  within  him 
for  several  days  :  meanwhile  he  drove  his  cattle  far  about 
in  the  wood,  and  made  the  following  verses  : 

"  The  vale  is  full  of  trouble,  but  here  sweet  Peace  may  reign ; 
Within  this  quiet  forest  no  bailiffs  may  distrain; 
None  fight,  like  all  in  the  vale,  in  the  Blessed  Church's  name; 
But  still  if  a  church  were  here,  perhaps  'twould  be  just  the 
same. 

Here  all  are  ut  peace  —  true,  the  hawk  is  rather  unkind; 
I  fear  be  is  looking  now  tjie  plumpest  sparrow  to  find; 
I  fear  yon  eagle  is  coming  to  rob  the  kid  of  his  breath; 
But  still  if  he  lived  very  long  he  might  be  tired  to  death. 


44  ARXE, 

The  woodman  fells  one  tree,  and  another  rots  away : 
The  red  fox  killed  the  lambkin  at  sunset  yesterday; 
But  the  wolf  killed  the  fox;  and  the  wolf,  too,  had  to  die, 
For  Arne  shot  him  down  to-day  before  the  dew  was  dry. 

Back  ril  go  to  the  valley  :   the  forest  is  just  as  bad  — 

I  must  take  heed,  however,  or  thinking  will  drive  me  mad  — 

I  saw  a  bov  in  mv  dreams,  though  where  I  cannot  tell  — 

But  I  know  he  had  killed  his  father,  and  I  think  it  wa.--  in  hell." 

Then  he  went  home  and  told  the  mother  she  mi^lit  send 
for  a  kid  to  tend  the  cattle  on  the  mountains  ;  and  that  he 
would  himself  manage  the  farm  :  and  so  it  was  arranged. 
But  the  mother  was  constantly  hovering  about  him,  warn- 
ing him  not  to  work  too  hard.  Then,  too.  she  used  to 
get  him  such  nice  meals  that  he  often  felt  quite  ashamed 
to  take  them  ;  yet  he  said  nothing. 

He  had  in  his  mind  a  song  having  for  its  burden, 
"  Over  the  mountains  high  ;  "  l)ut  he  never  could  com- 
plete it,  principally  because  he  alwa}  s  tried  to  bring 
the  burden  in  every  alternate  line  ;  so  afterwards  he  gave 
this  up. 

But  several  of  his  songs  became  known,  antl  were 
much  liked  ;  and  many  people,  especially  those  who  had 
known  him  from  his  childhood,  were  fond  (jf  talking  t(j 
him.  liut  he  was  shv  to  all  whom  he  did  not  know,  and 
he  thought  ill  of  them,  mainly  because  he  fancied  the}' 
thought   ill  of  him. 

In  the  next  field  to  his  own  workeil  a  middle-aged  man 
named  ( )pplands-Knut.  who  used  sometimes  to  sing,  but 
alwa\s  the  same  song.  After  Arne  had  heard  him  sing- 
ing it  for  se\cral  months,  he  thought  he  would  ask  liin:i 
\\hcther  he  did  not  know  any  others.  ••  >so,"'  Kniit  an- 
swered. Then  after  a  few  mcjre  da\s,  when  he  was 
again  singing  his  song.  .\rne  asked  him,  "  IIcjw  came 
^ on  to  learn   that  (jne   sou'':"" 


••  HE    HAD    IN    HIS    MIND    A    SONG.  45 

'•  Ah  I    it   happLMicd    thus "    and    then   he  said  no 

more. 

Arne  went  away  from  him  straight  indoors  ;  and  tlierc 
he  found  his  mother  weeping  ;  a  thing  he  had  n(jt  seen 
her  do  ever  since  the  fatlier's  death.  lie  turned  back 
again,  just  as  though  he  did  not  notice  it ;  Init  he  feU  the 
motlier  was  looking  sorrowfully  after  him,  and  he  \\as 
obliged  to  sto^). 

'AV'hat  are  you  crying  for.  mother .? "  he  asked.  vShe 
did  not  answer,  and  all  was  silent  in  the  room.  Then 
his  words  came  back  to  him  again,  and  he  felt  they  had 
not  been  spoken  s(j  kindly  as  they  ought ;  and  once  moi'e, 
in  a  gentler  tone,  he  asked,  "  What  are  you  crying  for, 
mother?  " 

'•  Ah.  I  hardly  know,"  she  said,  weeping  still  more. 
He  stood  silent  a  while  ;  but  at  last  mustered  courage  to 
say.  "  Still,  there  must  be  some  reason  why  you  are 
crying." 

Again  there  was  silence  ;  but  although  the  mother  had 
not  said  one  word  of  blanie.  he  felt  he  was  very  guilty 
towards  her.  ''  Well  it  just  came  over  me,"  she  said  after 
a  while  ;  and  in  a  few  moments  she  added,  '■  but 
really,  I'm  yery  happy;"  and  then  she  began  weeping 
again. 

Arne  hurried  out.  away  to  the  ravine  :  and  while  he 
sat  there  looking  into  it,  he.  too,  began  weeping.  ••  If  I 
only  knew  what  I  am  crying  for,"  he  said. 

Then  he  heard  Opplands-Knut  singing  in  the  fields 
abo\e  him  : 

••  Ingerid  Sletten  of  Willow-pool 
Had  no  costly  trinkols  to  wear; 
But  a  cap  she  had  that  was  far  more  fair, 
Althouifh  "twas  onlv  of  wool. 


46  ARXE. 

It  had  no  trimming,  and  now  was  old; 

But  her  mother,  who  long  had  gone, 

Had  given  it  her,  and  so  it  shone 
To  Ingerid  more  than  gold. 

For  twenty  years  she  laid  it  aside. 
That  it  might  not  be  worn  away  : 
'My  cap  I'll  wear  on  that  blissful  day 

When  I  shall  become  a  bride.' 

For  thirty  years  she  laid  it  aside 
Lest  the  colors  might  fade  away  : 
'My  cap  I'll  wear  when  to  God  I  pray, 

A  happy  and  grateful  bride.' 

For  forty  years  she  laid  it  aside. 

Still  holding  her  mother  as  dear: 

'My  little  cap.  I  certainly  fear 
I  never  shall  be  a  bride.' 

She  went  to  look  for  the  cap  one  day 

In  the  chest  where  it  long  had  lain; 

But.  ah  I   her  looking  was  all  in  vain  : 
The  cap  had  mouldered  away." 

Arne  listened,  and  tlie  words  seemed  to  him  like  music 
playing  far  away  over  the  mountains.  lie  went  up  to 
Knut  and  asked  him,  ''Have  you  a  mother.^'" 

"  No." 

"  Have  vou  a  father.^" 

'■  A]\.  iKj  ;   no  lather." 

••1^  it  long  since  they  died.'" 

"Ah.  \es;   it's  long  since." 

'•  \'ou  ha\cn"t  many,  I  dare  sa\-,  who  love  you.'" 

'•  Ah,  no  ;   noi  man\'." 

•'  Have  vou  anv  here  at  all.'" 

''  No  ;   not  here." 

"  But  away  in  \our  own  place.'"    . 


"ill!:    HAD    IN    HIS    MIND    A    SONG."  47 

"  Ah,  no  ;   not  there  either." 

"  Haven't  you  any  at  all  then  who  love  you.-*" 

"  Ah,  no  ;  I  haven't  any." 

But  Arne  walked  away  with  his  heart  so  full  of  love  to 
his  mother  that  it  seemed  as  if  it  would  burst ;  and  all 
aroinid  him  i;re\v  hrij^ht.  He  felt  he  must  li^o  in  again, 
if  only  for  the  sake  of  looking  at  her.  As  he  walked  on 
the  thought  struck  him,  "What  if  I  were  to  lose  her?" 
lie  stopped  suddenlv.  "  Almighty  God,  what  woidd 
then  become  of  me?" 

Then  he  felt  as  if  some  dreadful  accident  was  happen- 
ing at  home,  and  he  hurried  onwards,  cold  drops  bursting 
from  his  brow,  and  his  feet  hardly  touching  the  ground. 
He  threw  open  the  outer  door,  and  came  at  once  into  an 
atmos])here  of  peace.  Then  he  gently  opened  the  door 
of  the  iimer  room.  The  mother  had  gone  to  bed,  and 
lay  sleeping  as  calmly  as  a  child,  with  the  moonbeams 
shinin<r  full  on  her  face. 


48  ARXE. 


VI. 

STRANGE    TALES. 

A  FEW  days  after,  the  motlier  and  son  agreed  on 
going  together  to  the  wedding  of  some  rehitions  in 
one  of  the  neighboring  phices.  The  mother  had  not 
been  to  a  party  ever  since  she  was  a  girl ;  and  both  she 
and  Arne  knew  but  very  httle  of  the  people  living  around, 
save  their  names. 

Arne  felt  uncomfortable  at  this  part}-,  however,  for  he 
fancied  everybody  was  staring  at  him  :  and  once,  as  he 
was  passing  through  the  passage,  he  believed  he  heard 
something:  said  about  him.  the  mere  thought  of  which 
made  every  drop  of  blood  rush  into  his  face. 

He  kept  going  about  looking  after  the  man  who  had 
said  it,  and  at  last  he  took  a  seat  next  him. 

When  they  were  at  chnner,  the  man  said,  "  WelL  now, 
I  shall  tell  vou  a  story  which  proves  nothing  can  be 
buried  so  deeplv  that  it  won't  one  day  be  ])rought  to 
liglit ; "  and  Arne  fancied  he  looked  at  him  all  the  time 
he  was  saying  this.  lie  v/as  an  uglv-looking  man,  witli 
scanty  red  liair,  lianging  about  a  wide,  round  forehead, 
small,  deep-set  eyes,  a  little  snub-nose,  and  a  large  mouth, 
witli  pale  out-turned  lips,  which  showed  both  his  gums 
when  lie  huighed.  His  hands  were  resting  on  the  table  ; 
they  were  large  and  coarse,  but  the  wrists  were  slender. 
He  had  a  fierce  look  ;  and  he  spoke  quickly,  but  with 
difficulty,  'i'he  people  called  him  "  Bragger  ;  "  and  Arne 
knew  that  in  bygone  days,  Nils,  the  tailor,  had  treated 
him  badly. 

"  Yes,"  continued  the  man,  '•  there  is  indeed,  a  great 


STRANGE    TALES.  49 

deal  of  sin  in  the  world  ;  and  it  sits  nearer  to  us  than  we 
think.  .  .  .  But  never  mind  ;  I'll  tell  you  now  of  a  foul 
deed.  Those  of  you  who  are  old  will  remember  Alf — 
Alf,  the  pedlar.  '  I'll  call  again,'  Alf  used  to  say  :  and 
he  has  left  that  saying  behind  him.  When  he  had  struck 
a  bargain  —  and  what  a  fellow  for  trade  he  was  !  —  he 
would  take  up  his  bundle,  and  say,  '  I'll  call  again.'  A 
devil  of  a  fellow,  proud  fellow,  brave  fellow,  was  he,  Alf, 
the  pedlar  ! 

"  Well  he  and  Big  Lazy-bones,  Big  Lazy-bones  —  well, 
you  know  Big  Lazy-bones.''  —  big  he  was,  and  lazy  he 
was,  too.  He  took  a  fancy  to  a  coal-black  horse  that  Alf, 
the  pedlar,  used  to  drive,  and  had  trained  to  hop  like  a 
summer  frog.  And  almost  before  Big  Lazy-bones  knew 
what  he  was  about,  he  paid  fifty  dollars  for  this  horse  ! 
Then  Big  Lazy-bones,  tall  as  he  was,  got  into  a  carriage, 
meaning  to  drive  about  like  a  king  with  his  fifty-dollar- 
horse  ;  but,  though  he  whipped  and  swore  like  a  devil, 
the  horse  kept  running  against  all  the  doors  and  win- 
dows ;   for  it  was  stone-blind ! 

"  Afterwards,  whenever  Alf  and  Big  Lazy-bones  came 
across  each  other,  they  used  to  quarrel  and  fight  about 
this  horse  like'two  dogs.  Big  Lazy-bones  said  he  would 
have  his  money  back  ;  but  he  could  not  get  a  farthing  of 
it :  and  Alf  drubbed  him  till  the  bristles  flew.  '  I'll  call 
again,'  said  Alf.  A  devil  of  a  fellow,  proud  fellow,  brave 
fellow  that  Alf— Alf,  the  pedlar  ! 

"  Well,  after  that  some  yoiirs  passed  away  without  his 
being  seen  again. 

"  Then,  in  about  ten  years  or  so,  a  call  for  him  was 
publislied  on  the  clun'ch-hill,*   for   a  great  fortune   had 

*  In  Norway,  certain  public  announcements  are  macio  before 
the  church  door  on  Sundays  after  service.  —  Translators. 

4 


5©  ARNE. 

been  left  him.  Big  Lazy-bones  stood  listening.  '  Ah,' 
said  he,  '  I  well  knew  it  must  be  money,  and  not  men, 
that  called  out  for  Alf,  the  pedlar.' 

"  Now,  there  was  a  good  dfeal  of  talk  one  way  and 
another  about  Alf;  and  at  last  it  seemed  to  be  pretty 
clearly  made  out  that  he  had  been  seen  for  the  last  time 
on  this  side  of  the  ledge,  and  not  on  the  other.  Well, 
you  remember  the  road  over  the  ledge  —  the  old  road  } 

"  Of  late,  Big  Lazy-bones  had  got  quite  a  great  man, 
and  he  owned  both  houses  and  land.  Then,  too,  he  had 
taken  to  being  religious ;  and  that,  everybody  knew,  he 
didn't  take  to  for  nothing  —  nobody  does.  People  began 
to  whisper  about  these  things. 

"Just  at  this  time  the  road  over  the  ledge  had  to  be 
altered.  Folks  in  bygone  days  had  a  great  fancy  for 
going  straight  onwards  ;  and  so  the  old  road  ran  straight 
over  the  ledge  ;  but  now-a-days  we  like  to  have  things 
smooth  and  easy ;  and  so  the  new  road  was  made  to  run 
down  along  the  river.  While  they  were  making  it,  there 
was  digging  and  mining  enough  to  bring  down  the  whole 
mountain  about  their  ears  ;  and  the  magistrates  and  all 
the  officers  who  have  to  do  with  that  sort  of  thing  were 
there.  One  day  while  the  men  were  diggilig  deep  in  the 
stony  ground,  one  of  them  took  up  something  which  he 
thought  was  a  stone  ;  but  it  turned  out  to  be  the  bones  of 
a  man's  hand  instead ;  and  a  wonderfully  strong  hand  it 
seemed  to  be,  for  the  man  who  got  it  fell  flat  down 
directly.  That  man  was  Big  Lazy-bones.  The  magis- 
trate was  just  strolling  about  round  there,  and  they 
fetched  him  to  the  place  ;  and  then  all  the  bones  belong- 
ing to  a  whole  man  were  dug  out.  The  Doctor,  too,  was 
fetched  ;  and  he  put  them  all  together  so  cleverly  that 
nothing  was  wanting  but  the  flesh.  And  then  it  struck 
some  of  the  people  that  the  skeleton  was  just  about  the 


STRANGE    TALES.  5 1 

same  size  and  make  as  Alf,  the-  pedlar.     '  I'll  call  again,' 
Alf  used  to  say. 

"  And  then  it  struck  somebody  else,  that  it  was  a  very 
queer  thing  a  dead  hand  should  have  made  a  great  fellow 
like  Big  Lazy-bones  fall  flat  down  like  that :  and  the 
magistrate  accused  him  straight  of  having  had  more  to 
do  with  that  dead  hand  than  he  ought  —  of  course,  when 
nobody  else  was  by.  But  then  Big  Lazy-bones  foreswore 
it  with  such  fearful  oaths  that  the  magistrate  turned  quite 
giddy.  '  Well,'  said  the  magistrate,  '  if  you  didn't  do  it, 
I  dare  say  you're  a  fellow,  now,  who  would  not  mind 
sleeping  with  the  skeleton  to-night?'  —  'No;  I  shouldn't 
mind  a  bit,  —  not  I,'  said  Big  Lazy-bones.  So  the  Doc- 
tor tied  the  joints  of  tlie  skeleton  together,  and  laid  it  in 
one  of  the  beds  in  the  barracks ;  and  put  another  bed 
close  by  it  for  Big  Lazy-bones.  The  magistrate  wrapped 
himself  in  his  cloak,  and  lay  down  close  to  the  door  out- 
side. When  night  came  on,  and  Big  Lazy-bones  had  to 
go  in  to  his  bedfellow,  the  door  shut  behind  him  as 
though  of  itself,  and  he  stood  in  the  dark.  But  then  Big 
Lazy-bones  set  ofl'  singing  psalms,  for  he  had  a  miglity 
voice.  'Why  are  you  singing  psalms?'  the  magistrate 
asked  from  outside  the  wall.  'May  be  the  bells  were 
never  tolled  for  him,'  answered  Big  Lazy-bones.  Then 
he  began  praying  out  loud,  as  earnestly  as  ever  he 
could.  'Why  are  you  praying?'  asked  the  magis- 
trate from  outside  the  wall.  'No  doubt,  he  has  been  a 
great  sinner,'  answered  Big  Lazy-bones.  Then  a  time 
after,  all  got  so  still  that  the  magistrate  might  have  gone 
to  sleep.  But  then  came  a  shrieking  that  made  the  very 
barracks  shake  :  '  I'll  call  again  ! '  —  Tlicn  came  a  hellish 
noise  and  crash  :  '  Out  with  that  flfty  dollars  of  mine  ! ' 
roared  Big  Lazv-bones :  and  the  shriekinir  and  crashing 
came  again.     Then  the  magistrate  burst  open  the  door ; 


52  ARNE. 

the  people  rushed  in  with  poles  and  firebrands ;  and 
there  lay  Big  Lazy-bones  on  the  floor,  with  the  skeleton 
on  the  top  of  him." 

There  was  a  deep  silence  all  round  the  table.  At  last 
a  man  who  was  lighting  his  clay-pipe  said,  "  Didn't  he 
go  mad  from  that  very  time .''  " 

"  Yes,  he  did." 

Arne  fancied  everybody  was  looking  at  him,  and  he 
dared  not  raise  his  eyes.  "  I  say,  as  I  said  before,"  con- 
tinued the  man  who  had  told  the  tale,  "  nothing  can  be 
buried  so  deeply  that  it  won't  one  day  be  brought  to 
light." 

"  Well,  now  I'll  tell  you  about  a  son  who  beat  his  own 
father,"  said  a  fair  stout  man  with  a  round  face.  Arne 
no  longer  knew  where  he  was  sitting. 

"  This  son  was  a  great  fellow,  almost  a  giant,  belong- 
ing to  a  tall  family  in  Hardanger ;  and  he  was  always  at 
odds  with  somebody  or  other.  He  and  his  father  were 
always  quarrelling  about  the  yearly  allowance  ;  and  so 
he  had  no  peace  either  at  home  or  out. 

"  This  made  him  grow  more  and  more  wicked ; 
and  the  father  persecuted  him.  '  I  won't  be  put  down 
by  anybody,'  the  son  said.  'Yes,  you'll  be  put  down  by 
me  so  long  as  I  live,'  the  father  answered.  '  If  you  don't 
hold  your  tongue,'  said  the  son,  rising,  '  I'll  strike  you.' 
—  'Well,  do  if  you  dare;  and  never  in  this  world  will 
you  have  luck  again,'  answered  the  father,  rising  also.  — 
'  Do  you  mean  to  say  that? '  said  the  son  ;  and  he  rushed 
upon  him  and  knocked  him  down.  But  the  fatlicr  didn't 
try  to  help  himself:  lie  folded  his  arms  and  let  the  son  do 
just  as  he  liked  witli  him.  Then  he  knocked  him  alwut, 
rolled  him  over  and  over,  and  dragged  him  towards  the 
door  by  his  white  hair.  '  I'll  have  peace  in  my  own 
house,  at  anv  rate,'  said  he.     But  when  thcv  had  come 


STRANGE    TALES.  53 

to  the  door,  the  father  raised  himself  a  little  and  cried 
out,  '  Not  beyond  the  door,  for  so  far  I  dragged  my  own 
father.'  The  son  didn't  heed  it,  but  dragged  the  old 
man's  head  over  the  threshold.  '  Not  beyond  the  door,  I 
say  !  '  And  the  old  man  rose,  knocked  down  the  son  and 
beat  him  as  one  would  beat  a  child." 

"  Ah,  that's  a  sad  story,"  several  said.  Then  Arne 
fancied  he  heard  some  one  saying,  "  It's  a  wicked  thing 
to  strike  one's  father  ;  "  and  he  rose,  turning  deadly  pale. 

'•  Now  I'll  tell  you  something,"  he  said  ;  but  he  hardly 
knew  what  he  was  going  to  say :  words  seemed  flying 
around  him  like  large  snowflakes.  "I'll  catch  them  at 
random,"  he  said  and  began:  — 

"A  troll  once  met  a  lad  walking  along  the  road  weep- 
ing. '  Whom  are  you  most  afraid  of.'' '  asked  the  troll, 
'yourself  or  others.'*'  Now,  the  boy  was  weeping  be- 
cause he  had  dreamed  last  night  he  had  killed  his  wicked 
father;  and  so  he  answered,  'I'm  most  afraid  of  myself.' 
—  '  Then  fear  yourself  no  longer,  and  never  weep  again  ; 
for  henceforward  you  shall  only  have  strife  with  others.' 
And  the  troll  went  his  way.  But  the  first  whom  the  lad 
met  jeered  at  him  ;  and  so  the  lad  jecretl  at  him  again. 
The  second  he  met  beat  liim  ;  and  so  he  beat  him  again. 
The  third  he  met  tried  to  kill  him  ;  and  so  the  lad  killed 
him.  Then  all  the  people  spoke  ill  of  the  lad  ;  and  so 
he  spoke  ill  again  of  all  the  people.  Thev  shut  the  doors 
against  him,  and  kept  all  their  things  away  from  him  ;  so 
he  stole  what  he  wanted  ;  and  he  even  took  his  night's 
rest  by  stealth.  As  now  they  wouldn't  let  him  come  to 
do  anything  good,  he  only  did  what  was  bad  ;  and  all 
that  was  bad  in  other  people,  they  let  him  suller  for. 
And  the  people  in  the  place  wept  because  of  the  mis- 
chief done  by  the  lad  ;  but  he  did  not  weep  himself,  for 
he  could  not.      Then   all   the  people   met  together  and 


54  ARNE. 

said,  '  Let's  go  and  drown  him,  for  with  him  we  drown 
all  the  evil  that  is  in  the  jDlace.'  So  they  drowned  him 
forthwith  ;  but  afterwards  they  thought  the  well  where  he 
was  drowned  gave  forth  a  mighty  odor. 

"  The  lad  himself  didn't  at  all  know  he  had  done  any- 
thing wrong ;  and  so  after  his  death  he  came  drifting  in 
to  our  Lord.  There,  sitting  on  a  bench,  he  saw  his 
father,  whom  he  had  not  killed,  after  all ;  and  opposite 
the  father,  on  another  bench,  sat  the  one  whom  he  had 
jeered  at,  the  one  he  had  beaten,  the  one  he  had  killed, 
and  all  those  whom  he  had  stolen  from,  and  those  whom 
he  had  otherwise  wronged. 

"  '  Whom  are  you  afraid  of,'  our  Lord  asked,  '  of  your 
father,  or  of  those  on  the  long  bench  } '  The  lad  pointed 
to  the  long  bench. 

"  '  Sit  down  then  by  your  father,'  said  our  Lord  ;  and 
the  lad  went  to  sit  down.  But  then  the  father  fell  down 
from  the  bench  with  a  large  axe-cut  in  his  neck.  Li  his 
seat,  came  one  in  the  likeness  of  the  lad  himself,  but  with 
a  thin  and  ghastly  pale  face  ;  another  with  a  drunkard's 
face,  matted  hair,  and  drooping  limbs ;  and  one  more 
with  an  insane  face,  torn  clothes,  and  frightful  laughter. 

"  '  So  it  might  have  happened  to  you,'  said  our  Lord. 

"  '  Do  you  think  so.'"  said  the  boy,  catching  hold  of  the 
Lord's  coat. 

"  Then  both  the  benches  fell  down  from  heaven  ;  but  the 
boy  remained  standing  near  the  Lord  I'ejoicing. 

'•  •  Remember  this  when  you  awake,'  said  our  Lord  ; 
and  the  Ixjy  awoke. 

"  The  boy  who  dreamed  so  is  I ;  those  who  tempted 
him  by  thinking  him  bad  are  you.  I  am  no  longer  afraid 
of  myself,  but  I  am  afraid  of  you.  Do  not  force  me  to 
evil ;  for  it  is  uncertain  if  I  get  hold  of  tlic  Lord's  coat." 

lie  ran  out :  the  men  looked  at  each  other. 


THE    SOLILOqUY    IN   THE    BARN.  55 


VII. 

THE   SOLILOQUY  IN  THE  BARN. 

ON  the  evening  of  the  day  after  this,  Arne  was  lying 
in  a  barn  belonging  to  the  same  house.  For  the 
first  time  in  his  life  he  had  become  drunk,  and  he  had 
been  lying  there  for  the  last  twenty-four  hours.  Now  he 
sat  up,  resting  upon  his  elbows,  and  talked  with  himself: 
"...  Everything  I  look  at  turns  to  cowardice.  It 
was  cowardice  that  hindered  me  from  running  away 
while  a  boy ;  cowardice  that  made  me  listen  to  father 
more  tlian  to  mother ;  cowardice  also  made  me  sing  the 
wicked  songs  to  him.  I  began  tending  the  cattle  through 
cowardice,  —  to  read  —  well,  that,  too,  was  through  cow- 
ardice :  I  wished  to  get  away  from  myself.  When, 
though  a  grown  up  lad,  yet  I  didn't  help  mother  against 
father  — cowardice  ;  that  I  didn't  that  night  —  ugh!  — 
cowardice  !  I  might  perhaps  have  waited  till  she  was 
killetl  !  .  .  .  I  coiddn't  bear  to  stay  at  home  afterwards  — 
cowardice;  still  I  didn't  go  away  —  cowardice;  I  did 
notliing,  I  tended  cattle  .  .  .  cowardice.  'Tis  true  I 
promised  mother  to  stay  at  home  ;  still  I  sliould  have 
been  cowardly  enough  to  break  my  promise  if  I  hadn't 
been  afraid  of  mixing  among  people.  For  I'm  afraid  of 
people,  mainly  because  I  think  tliev  see  how  bad  I  am  ; 
and  because  I'm  afraid  of  them,  I  speak  ill  of  them  —  a 
curse  upon  my  cowardice  I  I  make  songs  through  cow- 
ardice. I'm  afraid  of  thinking  'oravelv  about  mv  own 
afiiiirs,  and  so  I  turn  aside  and  think  about  otlier  people's  ; 
and  making  verses  is  just  that. 


5'6  ARNE. 

"  I've  cause  enough  to  weep  till  the  hills  turned  to 
lakes,  but  instead  of  that  I  say  to  myself,  '  Hush,  hush,' 
and  begin  rocking.  And  even  my  songs  are  cowardly ; 
for  if  they  were  bold  they  would  be  better.  I'm  afraid 
of  strong  thoughts ;  afraid  of  anything  that's  strong ; 
and  if  ever  I  rise  into  it,  it's  in  a  passion,  and  passion  is 
cowardice.  I'm  more  clever  and  know  more  than  I 
seem  ;  I'm  better  than  my  words,  but  my  cowardice 
makes  me  afraid  of  showing  myself  in  my  true  colors. 
Shame  upon  me !  I  drank  that  spirits  through  coward- 
ice ;  I  wanted  to  deaden  my  pain  —  shame  upon  me  !  I 
felt  miserable  all  the  while  I  was  drinking  it,  yet  I  drank  ; 
drank  my  father's  heart' s-blood,  and  still  I  drank !  In 
fact  there's  no  end  to  my  cowardice ;  and  the  most  cow- 
ardly thing  is,  that  I  can  sit  and  tell  myself  all  this ! 

"...  Kill  myself?  Oh,  no  !  I  am  a  vast  deal  too 
cowardly  for  that.  Then,  too,  I  believe  a  little  in  God 
.  .  .  yes,  I  believe  in  God.  I  would  fain  go  to  Him  ; 
but  cowardice  keeps  me  from  going :  it  would  be  such  a 
great  change  that  a  coward  shrinks  from  it.  But  if  I 
were  to  put  forth  what  power  I  have.''  Almighty  God, 
if  I  tried.''  Thou  wouldst  cure  me  in  such  a  way  as  my 
milky  spirit  can  bear ;  wouldst  lead  me  gently ;  for  I 
have  no  bones  in  me,  nor  even  gristle  —  nothing  but  jelly. 
If  I  tried  .  .  .  with  good,  gentle  books,  —  I'm  afraid  of 
the  strong  ones —  ;  with  pleasant  talcs,  stories,  all  that  is 
mild,  and  then,  a  sermon  every  Sunday,  and  a  prayer 
every  evening.  If  I  tried  to  clear  a  field  within  me  for 
religifjn  ;  and  worked  in  good  earnest,  for  one  cannot  sow 
in  laziness.  If  I  tried  ;  dear  mild  God  of  my  childhood, 
if  I  tried  !  " 

But  then  the  barn-door  was  opened,  and  the  mother 
came  rushing  across  the  floor.  Her  face  was  deadly 
pale,  though  the  perspiration  dropped  from  it  like  gi'eat 


THE   SOLILOQUY   IN   THE   BARN.  57 

tears.  For  the  last  twenty-four  hours  she  had  been  rush- 
ing hither  and  thither,  seeking  her  son,  calHng  his  name, 
and  scarcely  pausing  even  to  listen,  until  now  when  he 
answered  from  the  barn.  Then  she  gave  a  loud  cry, 
jumped  upon  the  hay-mow  more  lightly  than  a  boy,  and 
threw  herself  upon  Arne's  breast.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  "  Arne,  Arne  are  you  here?  At  last  I've  found 
you  ;  I've  been  looking  for  you  ever  since  yesterday  ;  I've 
been  looking  for  you  aril  night  long  !  Poor,  poor  Arne  ! 
I  saw  they  worried  you,  and  I  wanted  to  come  to  speak 
to  you  and  comfort  you,  but  really  I'm  always  afraid ! " 
.  .  .  "Arne,  I  saw  you  drinking  spirits  !  Almighty  God, 
may  I  never  see  it  again !  Arne,  I  saw  you  drinking 
spirits."  It  was  some  minutes  before  she  was  able  to 
speak  again.  "  Christ  have  mercy  upon  you,  my  boy,  I 
saw  you  drinking  spirits !  .  .  .  You  were  gone  all  at 
once,  dnuik  and  crushed  by  grief  as  you  were  !  I  ran 
all  over  the  place ;  I  went  far  into  the  fields ;  but  I 
couldn't  find  you  :  I  looked  in  every  copse  ;  I  questioned 
everybody ;  I  came  here,  too ;  but  you  didn't  answer. 
.  .  .  Arne,  Arne,  I  went  along  the  river ;  but  it  seemed 
nowhere  to  be  deep  enough.  .  .  ."  She  pressed  herself 
closer  to  him. 

"  Then  it  came  into  my  mind  all  at  once  that  you  might 
have  gone  home ;  and  I'm  sure  I  was  only  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  going  there.  I  opened  the  outer-door  and  looked 
in  every  room  ;  and  then,  for  the  first  time,  I  remembered 
that  the  house  had  been  locked  up,  and  I  myself  had  the 
key ;  and  that  you  could  not  have  come  in,  after  all. 
Arne,  last  night  I  looked  all  along  both  sides  of  the  road  : 
I  dared  not  go  to  the  edge  of  the  ravine.  ...  I  don't 
know  how  it  was  I  came  here  again  ;  nobodv  told  me  ; 
it  must  have  been  the  Lord  himself  who  put  it  into  my 
mind  that  you  might  be  here  ! " 


58  ARNE. 

She  paused  and  lay  for  a  while  with  her  head  upon  his 
breast. 

He  tried  to  comfort  her. 

"  Arne,  you'll  never  drink  spirits  again,  I'm  sure.^" 

^'  No  ;  you  may  be  sure  I  never  will." 

"  I  believe  they  were  very  hard  upon  you?  they  were, 
weren't  they .'' " 

"  No ;  it  was  I  who  was  cozvardly"  he  answered,  lay- 
ing a  great  stress  upon  the  woi*d. 

"  I  can't  understand  how  they  could  behave  badly 
to  you.  But,  tell  me,  what  did  they  do?  you  never 
,will  tell  me  anything;"  and  once  more  she  began  weep- 
ing. 

"  But  you  never  tell  me  anything,  either,"  he  said  in  a 
low  gentle  voice. 

"  Yet  you're  the  most  in  fault,  Arne  :  I've  been  so  long 
used  to  be  silent  through  your  father ;  you  ought  to  have 
led  me  on  a  little.  —  Good  Lord  !  we've  only  each  other  ; 
and  we've  suffered  so  much  together." 

"  Well,  we  must  try  to  manage  better,"  Arne  whis- 
pered. 

..."  Next  Sunday  I'll  read  the  sermon  to  you." 

"  God  bless  you  for  it."  .  .   . 

"  Arne  ! " 

"  Well ! " 

"  There's  something  I  must  tell  you." 

"  Well,  mother,  tell  me  it." 

"  I've  greatly  sinned  against  you ;  I've  done  some- 
thing very  wrong." 

"  You,  mother?  " 

"  Indeed,  I  liave  ;  but  I  couldn't  help  doing  it.  Arne, 
you  must  forgive  me." 

*'  But  I'm  sure  you've  never  done  anything  wrong  to 
me." 


THE    SOLILOQUV    IN    THE    BARN.  59 

"  Indeed,  I  have :  and  my  very  love  to  you  made  me 
do  it.     But  you  must  forgive  me  ;   will  you  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  will." 

"  And  then  another  time  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  .  .  . 
but  you  must  forgive  me  !  " 

"  Yes,  mother,  yes." 

"  And  don't  you  see  the  reason  why  I  couldn't  talk 
much  to  you  was,  that  I  had  this  on  my  mind.?  I've 
sinned  against  you." 

"  Pray  don't  talk  so,  mother  !  " 

"Well,  I'm  glad  I've  said  what  I  have." 

"And,  mother,  we'll  talk  more  together,  we  two." 

"  Yes,  that  we  will ;  and  then  you'll  read  the  sermon 
to  me  ? " 

"  I  will." 

"  Poor  Arne  ;  God  bless  you  !  " 

"  I  think  we  both  had  better  go  home  now." 

"  Yes,  we'll  both  go  home." 

"You're  looking  all  round,  mother.-'" 

"  Yes ;  your  father  once  lay  weeping  in  this  barn." 

"Father?"  asked  Arne,  growing  deadly  pale. 

"  Poor  Nils  !     It  was  the  day  you  were  christened." 

"You're  looking  all  round,  Arne.?" 


6o  ARXE. 


VIII. 
THE  SHADOWS   ON  THE    WATER. 


I 


'T  was  such  a  cheerful,  sunnj  day, 
No  rest  indoors  could  I  find ; 
So  I  strolled  to  the  wood,  and  down  I  lay, 

And  rocked  what  came  in  my  mind  : 
But  there  the  emmets  crawled  on  the  ground. 
And  wasps  and  gnats  were  stinging  around. 

'  Won't  you  go  out-doors  this  fine   day,  dear } '   said 
mother,  as  she  sat  in  the  porch,  spinning. 

It  was  such  a  cheerful,  sunny  day, 

No  rest  indoors  could  I  find ; 
So  I  went  in  the  birk,  and  down  I  lay. 

And  sang  what  came  in  my  mind  : 
But  snakes  crept  out  to  bask  in  the  sun  — 
Snakes  five  feet  long,  so,  away  I  run. 

'  In  such  beautiful  weather  one  may  go  barefoot,'  said 
mother,  taking  off  her  stockings. 

It  was  such  a  cheerful,  sunny  day, 

Indoors  I  could  not  abide; 
So  I  went  in  a  boat,  and  down  I  lay. 

And  floated  away  with  the  tide  : 
But  the  sun-beams  burned  till  my  nose  was  sore; 
So  I  turned  my  boat  again  to  the  shore. 

'  This  is,  indeed,  good  weather  to  dry  the  hay,'  said 
mother,  putting  her  rake  into  a  swath. 

It  was  such  a  cheerful,  sunny  day. 

In  the  house  I  could  not  be; 
And  so  from  the  heat  I  climbed  away 

In  the  boughs  of  a  shady  tree  : 
But  caterpillars  dropped  on  my  face, 
So  down  I  jumped  and  ran  from  the  place. 


THE   SHADOWS   ON   THE   WATER.  6l 

'Well,  if  the  cow  doesn't  get  on  to-day,  she  never  will 
get  on,'  said  mother,  glancing  up  towards  the  slope. 

It  was  such  a  cheerful,  sunny  day, 

Indoors  I  could  not  remain  : 
'  And  so  for  quiet  I  rowed  away 

To  the.  waterfall  amain  : 
But  there  I  drowned  while  bright  was  the  sky : 
If  you  made  this,  it  cannot  be  I. 

'  Only  three  more  such  sunny  days,  and  we  shall  get 
in  all  the  hay,'  said  mother,  as  she  went  to  make  my 
bed." 

Arne  when  a  child  had  not  cared  much  for  fairy-tales ; 
but  now  he  began  to  love  them,  and  they  led  him  to  the 
sagas  and  old  ballads.  He  also  read  sermons  and  other 
religious  books ;  and  he  was  gentle  and  kind  to  all 
around  him.  But  in  his  mind  arose  a  strange  deep  long- 
ing :  he  made  no  more  songs ;  but  walked  often  alone, 
not  knowing  what  was  within  him. 

Many  of  the  places  around,  which  formerly  he  had  not 
even  noticed,  now  appeared  to  him  ^vondrously  beautiful. 
At  the  time  he  and  his  schoolfellows  had  to  go  to  the 
Clergyman  to  be  prepared  for  confirmation,  they  used  to 
play  near  a  lake  lying  just  below  the  parsonage,  and 
called  the  Swart-water  because  it  lay  deep  and  dark 
between  the  mountains.  He  now  often  thought  of  this 
place  ;    and  one  evening  he  went  thither. 

He  sat  down  behind  a  grove  close  to  the  parsonage, 
which  was  built  on  a  steep  hill-side,  rising  high  above 
till  it  became  a  mountain.  High  mountains  rose  like- 
wise on  the  opposite  shore,  so  that  broad  deep  shadows 
fell  upon  both  sides  of  the  lake,  but  in  the  middle  ran  a 
stripe  of  bright  silvery  water.  It  was  a  calm  evening 
near  sunset,  and  not  a  sound  was  heard  save  the  tinkling 
of  the  cattle-bells  from  the  opposite  shore.     Arne  at  first 


62  AKXE. 

did  not  look  straight  before  him,  b.  t  downwards  along 
the  lake,  wdiere  the  sun  was  sprinkling  burning  red  ere 
it  sank  to  rest.  There,  at  the  end,  the  mountains  gave 
way,  and  between  them  lay  a  long  low  valley,  against 
which  the  lake  beat;  but  they  seemed  to  run  gradually 
towards  each  other,  and  to  hold  the  valley  in  a  great 
swing.  Houses  lay  thickly  scattered  all  along,  the  smoke 
rose  and  curled  away,  the  fields  lay  green  and  reeking, 
and  boats  laden  with  hay  were  anchored  by  the  shore. 
Aine  saw  many  people  going  to  and  fro,  but  he  heard  no 
noise.  Thence  his  eye  went  along  the  shore  towards 
God's  dark  wood  upon  the  mountain-sides.  Through  it, 
man  had  made  liis  way,  and  its  course  was  indicated  by 
a  winding  stripe  of  dust.  This,  Arne's  eye  followed  to 
opposite  where  he  was  sitting :  there,  the  wood  ended, 
the  mountains  opened,  and  houses  lay  scattered  all  over 
the  valley.  They  were  nearer  and  looked  larger  than 
those  in  the  other  valley ;  and  they,  were  red-painted, 
and  their  large  windows  glowed  in  the  sunbeams.  The 
fields  and  meadows  stood  in  strong  light,  and  the  smallest 
child  playing  in  them  was  clearly  seen  ;  glittcritig  white 
sands  lay  dry  upon  the  shore,  and  some  dogs  and  puppies 
were  running  there.  But  suddenly  all  became  sunless 
and  gloomy :  the  houses  looked  dark  red,  the  meadows 
dull  green,  the  sand  greyish  white,  and  the  children  little 
clumps:  a  clotul  of  mist  had  risen  over  the  mountains, 
taking  away  the  sunlight.  Arne  looked  down  into  the 
W'ater,  and  there  he  found  all  once  more  :  the  fields  lay 
rocking,  the  wood  silently  drew  near,  the  houses  stood 
looking  down,  the  doors  were  open,  and  children  went 
out  and  in.  Fairy-tales  and  childish  things  came  rush- 
ing into  his  mind,  as  little  fishes  come  to  a  bait,  swim 
away,  come  once  more  and  play  round,  and  again  swim 
away. 


THE    SHADOWS    ON    THE    WATER.  63 

"  Let's  sit  down  here  till  your  mother  comes  ;  I  suppose 
the  Clergyman's  lady  will  have  finished  sometime  or 
other,"  Arne  was  startled :  some  one  had  been  sitting 
a  little  way  behind  him. 

"If  I  might  but  stay  this  one  night  more,"  said  an  im- 
ploring voice,  half  smothei'ed  by  tears :  it  seemed  to  be 
that  of  a  girl  not  quite  grown  up. 

'•  Now  don't  cry  any  more  ;  it's  wrong  to  cry  because 
you're  going  home  to  your  mother,"  was  slowly  said  by 
a  gentle  voice,  which  was  evidently  that  of  a  man. 

"  It's  not  that,  I  am  crying  for." 

"Why,  then,  are  you  crying.'" 

"  Because  I  shall  not  live  any  longer  with  Mathilde." 

This  was  the  name  of  the  Clergyman's  only  daughter ; 
and  Arne  remembered  that  a  peasant -girl  had  been 
brought  up  with  her. 

"  Still,  that  couldn't  go  on  for  ever." 

"  Well,  but  only  one  day  more  father,  dear  !  "  and  the 
girl  began  sobbing. 

"  No,  it's  better  we  take  you  home  now  ;  j^erha^os,  in- 
deed, it's  already  too  late." 

"  Too  late  !  Why  too  late  ?  did  ever  anybody  hear 
such  a  thing.'"' 

"  You  were  born  a  peasant,  and  a  peasant  you  shall  be  ; 
we  can't  ailbrd  to  keep  a  ladv." 

'*  But  I  might  remain  a  peasant  all  the  same  if  I  stayed 
there." 

"  Of  tluit  you  can't  judge." 

"  I've  always  worn  my  peasant's  dress." 

"  Clothes  have  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"  I've  spun,  and  woven,  and  done  cooking." 

"Neither  is  ^//a^  the  tiling." 

"  I  can  speak  just  as  you  and  mother  speak." 

"  It's  not  that  either." 


64  ARNE. 

"  Well,  then,  I  really  don't  know  what  it  is,"  the  girl 
said,  laughing, 

"  Time  will  show ;  but  I'm  afraid  you've  already  got 
too  many  thoughts." 

"  Thoughts,  thoughts !  so  you  always  say ;  I  have  no 
thoughts  ;  "  and  she  wept. 

"  Ah,  you're  a  wind-mill,  that  you  are." 

"  The  Clergyman  never  said  that." 

"  No  ;  but  now  /say  it." 

"Wind-mill.''  who  ever  heard  such  a  thing.''  I  won't 
be  a  wind-mill." 

"  What  -juill  you  be  then  }  " 

"What  will  I  be.!*  who  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing.? 
nothing,  I  will  be." 

"  Well,  be  nothing,  then." 

Now  the  girl  lauglied ;  but  after  a  while  she  said 
gravely,  "  It's  wrong  of  you  to  say  I'm  nothing." 

"  Dear  me,  when  you  said  so  yourself!  " 

"  Nay  ;  I  won't  be  nothing." 

"Well,  then,  be  everjthing." 

Again  she  laughed  ;  but  after  a  while  she  said  in  a  sad 
tone,  "  The  Clergyman  never  used  to  make  a  fool  of  me 
in  this  way." 

"  No  ;  but  he  did  make  a  fool  of  you." 

"The  Clergyman.''  well,  you've  never  been  so  kind  to 
me  as  he  was." 

"No  ;  and  if  I  had  I  should  have  spoiled  you." 

"  Well,  sour  milk  can  never  l)ecome  sweet." 

"  It  may  when  it  is  boiled  to  whey." 

Slic  laughed  aloud.  "  Here  comes  your  mother." 
Then  the  girl  again  Ijccame  grave. 

"  Such  a  long-winded  woman  as  that  Clergyman's 
lady,  I  never  met  with  in  all  my  live-long  days,"  in- 
terposed  a   sharp    quick    voice.      "  Now,    make    haste, 


THE    SHADOWS    ON    THE    WATER.  65 

Baard  ;  get  up  and  push  off  the  boat,  or  we  sha'n't  get 
home  to-night.  The  lady  wished  me  to  take  care  that 
EU's  feet  were  kept  dry.  Dear  me,  she  must  attend  to 
that  herself!  Then  she  said  Eli  must  take  a  walk  every 
morning  for  the  sake  of  her  healtia !  Did  ever  anybody 
hear  such  stuff!  Well,  get  up,  Baard,  and  push  off  the 
boat ;  I  have  to  make  the  dough  this  evening." 

"  The  chest  hasn't  come  yet,"  he  said,  without  rising. 

"  But  the  chest  isn't  to  come  ;  it's  to  be  left  there  till 
next  Sunday.  Well,  Eli,  get  up  ;  take  your  bundle,  and 
come  on.     Now,  get  up,  Baard." 

Away  she  went,  followed  by  the  girl. 

"  Come  on,  come  on  ! "  Arne  then  heard  the  same 
voice  say  from  the  shore  below. 

"  Have  you  looked  after  the  plug  in  the  boat.''"  Baard 
asked,  still  without  rising. 

"  Yes,  it's  put  in  ; "  and  then  Arne  heard  her  drive  it 
in  with  a  scoop. 

"  But  do  get  up,  Baard  ;  I  suppose  we're  not  going  to 
stay  here  all  night  ?     Get  up,  Baard  !  " 

"  I'm  waiting  for  the  chest." 

"  But  bless  you,  dear,  haven't  I  told  you  it's  to  be  left 
there  till  next  Sunday?  " 

'"Here  it  comes,"  Baard  said,  as  the  rattling  of  a  cart 
was  heard. 

"  \V  liy,  I  said  it  was  to  be  left  till  next  Sunday." 
,   "  I  said  we  were  to  take  it  with  us." 

Away  went  the  wife  to  the  cart,  and  carried  t!"ie  bundle 
and  otlicr  small  things  down  into  tlie  boat.  Then  Baard 
rose,  went  up,  aivl  took  down  the  chest  himself. 

But  a  girl  with  streaming  hair,  and  a  straw  bonnet 
came  running  after  the  cart :  it  was  the  Clergyman's 
daughter.      '•  Eli,  Eli  !  "  she  cried  while  still  at  a  distance. 

"  Mathilde,   JMathilde,"   was   answered  ;    and   the   two 
5 


66  ARNE. 

girls  ran  towards  each  other.  They  met  on  the  hill, 
embraced  each  other  and  wept.  Then  Mathilde  took 
out  something  which  she  had  set  down  on  the  grass :  it 
was  a  bird  in  a  cage. 

"  You  shall  have  Narrifas,"  she  said  ;  "  mamma  wishes 
you  to  have  it  too ;  you  shall  have  Narrifas  .  .  .  you 
really  shall  —  and  then  you'll  think  of  me  —  and  very 
often  row  over  to  me  ; "  and  again  they  wept  much. 

"  Eli,  come,  Eli !  don't  keep  standing  there  ! "  Arne 
heard  the  mother  say  from  the  shore  below. 

"  But  I'll  go  with  you,"  said  Mathilde. 

"  Oh,  do,  do  !  "  and,  with  their  arms  round  each  other's 
neck,  they  ran  down  to  the  landing-place. 

In  a  few  minutes  Arne  saw  the  boat  on  the  water,  Eli 
standing  high  in  the  stern,  holding  the  bird-cage,  and 
waving  her  hand  ;  while  ]SIathilde  sat  alone  on  the  stones 
of  the  landing-place  weeping. 

She  remained  sitting  there  watching  the  boat  as  long 
as  it  was  on  the  water  ;  and  so  did  Arne.  The  distance 
across  the  lake  to  the  red  houses  was  but  short ;  the  boat 
soon  passed  into  the  dark  shadows,  and  he  saw  it  come 
ashore.  Then  he  saw  in  the  water  the  reflections  of  the 
tliree  who  had  just  landed,  and  in  it  he  followed  them  on 
their  way  to  the  red  houses  till  they  reached  the  finest  of 
them  ;  there  he  saw  them  go  in  ;  the  mother  first,  next, 
the  father,  and  last,  tlie  daughter.  But  soon  the  daughter 
came  out  again,  and  seated  herself  before  the  storehouse  ; 
perhaps  to  look  across  to  the  parsonage,  over  which  the 
sun  was  la3ing  its  last  rays.  But  ^Mathilde  had  already 
gone,  and  it  was  only  Arne  who  was  sitting  there  looking 
at  Eli  in  the  water.  "  I  wonder  whetlier  she  sees  me," 
he  thouglit.   .   .  . 

He  rose  and  went  away.  The  sun  had  set,  but  the 
summer  night  was  light  and   the   sky  clear  blue.     The 


THE    SHADOWS    ON    THK    WATER.  &J 

mist  from  the  lake  and  the  valleys  rose,  and  lay  along 
the  mountain-sides,  but  their  peaks  were  left  clear,  and 
stood  looking  over  to  each  other.  He  went  higher :  the 
water  lay  black  and  deep  below ;  the  distant  valley 
shortened  and  drew  nearer  the  lake ;  the  mountains 
came  nearer  the  eye  and  gathered  in  clumps ;  the  sky 
itself  was  lower ;  and  all  things  became  friendly  and 
familiar. 


68  ARNB. 


IX. 

THE  NUTTING-PARTY. 

"   1    "^AIR  Venevill  bounded  on  lithesome  feet 
J_  Her  lover  to  meet. 

He  sang  till  it  sounded  afar  awav, 
'Good-daj,  good-day,' 
While  blithesome  birds  were  singing  on  every  blooming  spray. 
On  Midsummer-day 
There  is  dancing  and  play: 
But  now  I  know  not  whether  she  weaves  her  wreath  or  nay. 

"  She  wove  him  a  wreath  of  corn-flowers  blue  : 
'Mine  eyes  so  true.' 
He  took  it.  but  soon  away  it  was  flung: 
'  Farewell ! '  he  sung  ; 
And  still  with  merry  singing  across  the  fields  he  sprung. 
On  Midsummer-day,  &c. 

"  She  wove  him  a  chain  :  *  Oli  keep  it  with  care ; 
'Tis  made  of  my  hair.' 
She  yielded  him  then,  in  an  hour  of  bliss, 
Her  pure  first  kiss  ; 
But  he  blushed  as  deeply  as  she  the  while  her  lips  met  his 
On  Midsuminer-day,  &c. 

"  She  wove  him  a  wreath  with  a  lily-band  : 
'Mv  true  right  hand.' 
She  wove  him  another  with  roses  aglow: 
'  My  K'ft  hand  now.' 
He  took  them  gently  from  her,  but  blushes  dyed  his  brow. 
On  Midsummcr-dav,  &c. 


THE    NUTTING— PARTY.  69 

"  She  wove  him  a  wreath  of  all  flowers  round  : 
'All  I  have  found.' 
She  wept,  but  she  gathered  and  wove  on  still : 
'Take  all  you  will.' 
Without  a  word  he  took  it,  and  fled  across  the  hill. 
On  Midsummer-day,  Sic. 

"  She  wove  on  bewildered  and  out  of  breath  : 
'My  bridal  wreath.' 
She  wove  till  her  fingers  aweary  had  grown  : 
'Now  put  it  on  : ' 
13ut  when  she  turned  to  see  him,  she  found  that  he  had  gone. 
On  Midsummer-day,  «&c. 

"  She  wove  on  in  haste,  as  for  life  or  death, 
Her  bridal  wreath; 
But  the  Midsummer  sun  no  longer  shone, 
And  the  flowers  were  gone  ; 
But  though  she  had  no  flowers,  wild  fancy  still  wove  on. 
On  Midsummer-day 
There  is  dancing  and  play; 
But  now  I  know  not  whether  she  weaves  her  wreath  or  nay." 


Arne  had  of  late  been  happier,  both  when  at  home  and 
when  out  among  people.  In  the  winter,  when  he  had 
not  work  enough  on  his  own  place,  he  wont  out  in  the 
parish  and  did  carpentry  ;  but  every  .Saturday  night  he 
came  home  to  the  mother  ;  and  went  with  her  to  church 
on  Sunday,  or  read  the  sermon  to  her  :  and  tlien  returned 
in  the  evening  to  his  place  of  work.  But  soon,  through 
going  more  among  people,  his  wish  to  travel  awoke 
within  him  again  ;  and  just  after  his  merriest  moods,  lie 
would  often  lie  trying  to  iinish  his  song,  ''  Over  the  moun- 
tains high,"  and  altering  it  for  about  tlie  twentieth  time. 
He  often  thought  of  Clnnstian,  who    seemed  to   have  so 


70  ARNE. 

utterly  forgotten  him,  and  who,  in  spite  of  his  promise, 
had  not  sent  him  even  a  single  letter.  Once,  the  remem- 
brance of  Christian  came  upon  him  so  powerfully  that  he 
thoughtlessly  spoke  of  him  to  the  mother ;  she  gave  no 
answer,  but  tin-ned  away  and  went  out. 

There  was  living  in  the  parish  a  jolly  man  named  Ejnar 
Aasen.  When  he  was  twenty  years  old  he  broke  his  leg, 
and  from  that  time  he  had  walked  with  the  support  of  a 
stick  ;  but  wherever  he  appeared  limping  along  on  that 
stick,  there  was  always  merriment  going  on.  The  man 
was  rich,  and  he  used  the  greater  part  of  his  wealth  in 
doing  good  ;  but  he  did  it  all  so  quietly  that  few  people 
knew  anything  about  it.  There  was  a  large  nut-wood 
on  his  property  ;  and  on  one  of  the  brightest  mornings  in 
harvest-time,  he  always  had  a  nutting-party  of  merry  girls 
at  his  house,  where  he  had  abundance  of  good  cheer  for 
them  all  day,  and  a  dance  in  the  evening.  He  was  the 
godfather  of  most  of  the  girls  ;  for  he  was  the  godfather 
of  half  of  the  parish.  All  tlie  children  called  him  God- 
father, and  from  them  everybody  else  had  learned  to  call 
him  so,  too. 

He  and  Arne  knew  each  other  well  ;  and  he  liked  Arne 
for  the  sake  of  his  songs.  Now  he  invited  him  to  the 
nutting-party  ;  but  Arne  declined  :  he  was  not  used  to 
girls'  company,  he  said.  "  Then  you  had  better  get  used 
to  it,"  answered  Godfather. 

So  Arne  came  to  the  party,  and  was  nearly  the  only 
young  man  among  the  many  girls.  vSucli  fun  as  was 
there,  Arne  liad  never  seen  before  in  all  his  life  ;  and  one 
thing  which  especially  astonished  him  was,  that  the  girls 
laughed  for  nothing  at  all :  if  three  laughed,  then  five 
would  laugh  just  because  those  three  laughed.  Alto- 
gether, they  bcliavcd  as  if  tliev  had  lived  with  each  other 
all  their  lives  ;  and  yet  there  were  several  of  them  who 


THE    NUTTING-PARTY.  fl 

had  never  met  before  that  very  day.  When  they  caught 
the  bough  which  they  jumped  after,  they  laughed,  and 
when  they  did  not  catch  it  they  laughed  also  ;  when  they 
did  not  find  any  nuts,  they  laughed  because  they  found 
none ;  and  when  they  did  find  some,  they  also  laughed. 
They  fought  for  the  nutting-hook :  those  who  got  it 
laughed,  and  those  who  did  not  get  it  laughed  also. 
Godfather  limped  after  them,  trying  to  beat  them  with 
his  stick,  and  making  all  the  mischief  he  was  good  for ; 
those  he  hit,  laughed  because  he  hit  them,  and  those  he 
missed,  laughed  because  he  missed  them.  But  the  whole 
lot  laughed  at  Arne  because  he  was  so  grave  ;  and  when 
at  last  he  could  not  help  laughing,  they  all  laughed  again 
because  he  laughed. 

Then  the  whole  party  sealed  themselves  on  a  large  hill ; 
the  girls  in  a  circle,  and  Godfatlftr  in  the  middle.  The 
sun  was  scorching  hot,  but  they  did  not  care  the  least  for 
it,  but  sat  cracking  nuts,  giving  Godfather  the  kernels, 
and  throwing  the  shells  and  husks  at  each  other.  God- 
father 'sh  'shed  at  them,  and,  as  far  as  he  could  reach, 
beat  them  with  his  stick  ;  for  he  wanted  to  make  them  be 
quiet  and  tell  tales.  But  to  stop  their  noise  seemed  just 
about  as  easy  as  to  stop  a  carriage  lamning  down  a  hill. 
Godfather  began  to  tell  a  tale,  however.  At  first  many 
of  them  would  not  listen  ;  they  knew  his  stories  already  ; 
but  soon  tlicy  all  listened  attentively ;  and  before  thev 
thought  of  it,  they  set  ofT  tale-telling  themselves  at  full 
gallop.  Though  they  had  just  been  so  noisy,  their  tales, 
to  Arne's  great  surprise,  were  very  earnest :  they  ran 
principally  upon  love. 

''  You,  Aasa,  know  a  good  tale,  I  remember  from  last 
year,"  said  Godfather,  turning  to  a  plump  girl  with  a 
round,  good-natured  face,  who  sat  phiiting  the  hair  of  a 
younger  sister,  whose  head  lay  in  her  lap. 


72  ARNE. 

"  But  perhaps  several  know  it  already,"  answered 
Aasa. 

"  Never  mind,  tell  it,"  they  begged. 

"  Very  well,  I'll  tell  it  without  anymore  persuading," 
she  answered  ;  and  then,  plaiting  her  sister's  hair  all  the 
while,  she  told  and  sang  :  — 

"  There  was  once  a  grown-up  lad  who  tended  cattle. 
and  who  often  drove  them  upwards  near  a  broad  stream. 
On  one  side  was  a  high  steep  cliff',  jutting  out  so  far  over 
the  stream  that  when  he  was  upon  it  he  could  talk  to  any 
one  on  the  opposite  side  ;  and  all  day  he  could  see  a  girl 
over  there  tending  cattle,  but  he  couldn't  go  to  her. 

'  Now,  tell  me  thy  name,  tliou  girl  that  art  sitting 
Up  there  with  thy  sheep,  so  busily  knitting,' 

he  asked  over  and  over  for  many  days,  till  one  day  at  last 
there  came  an  answer  :  — 

'  My  name  floats  about  like  a  duck  in  wet  weather; 
Come  over,  thou  boy  in  the  cap  of  brown  leather.' 

"  This  left  the  lad  no  wiser  than  he  was  before  ;  and  he 
thought  he  wouldn't  mind  her  any  fintlier.  This,  liow- 
ever,  was  much  more  easily  thouglit  tlian  done,  for  drive 
his  cattle  Avhichever  way  he  would,  it  alwavs,  somehow 
or  other,  led  to  that  same  high  steep  clitl'.  Then  the  lad 
grew  friglitened  ;   and  lie  called  over  to  licr  — 

'  Well,  who  is  your  father,  and  where  are  you  biding.'* 
On  the  road  to  the  church  I  have  ne'er  seen  you  riding.' 

''  The  lad  asked  this  because  he  half  believed  she  was 
a  huldre.* 

*  "  Over  the  whole  of  Norway,  the  tradition  is  current  of  a 
supernatural  being  that  dwells  in  the  forests  and  mountains, 
called  Iluldre  or  IluUa.  She  appears  like  a  beautiful  woman, 
and  is  usuallv  clad  in  a  blue  petticoat  and  a  white  snood;  but 


THE    NUTTING-PARTY.  73 

'  Mj  house  is  burned  down,  and  my  father  is  drowned, 
And  the  road  to  the  church-hill  I  never  have  found.' 

"  This  again  left  the  hid  no  wiser  than  he  was  before. 
In  the  daytime  he  kept  hovering  about  the  clif}';  and  at 
night  he  dreamed  she  danced  with  him,  and  lashed  him 
with  a  big  cow's  tail  whenever  he   tried  to   catch   her. 

uijfortunatelj  has  a  long  tail,  which  she  anxiously  tries  to  con- 
ceal when  she  is  among  people.  She  is  fond  of  cattle,  particu- 
larly brindled,  of  which  she  possesses  a  beautiful  and  thriving 
stock.  They  are  without  horns.  She  was  once  at  a  merry- 
making, where  every  one  was  desirous  of  dancing  with  the 
hand^o^le,  strange  damsel;  but  in  the  midst  of  the  mirth,  a 
young  man,  who  had  just  begun  a  dance  with  her,  happened  to 
cast  his  eye  on  her  tail.  Immediately  guessing  whom  he  had 
got  for  a  partner,  lie  was  not  a  little  terrified;  but,  collecting 
himself,  and  unwilling  to  betray  her,  he  merely  said  to  her  when 
the  dance  was  over,  •  P'air  maid,  you  will  lose  your  garter.'  She 
instantly  vanished,  but  afterwards  rewarded  the  silent  and  con- 
siderate 3'outh  with  beautiful  presents  and  a  good  breed  of  cattle. 
The  idea  entertained  of  this  being  is  not  everywhere  the  same. 
but  varies  considerably  in  different  parts  of  Norway.  In  some 
places  she  is  described  as  a  handsome  female  when  seen  in  front, 
but  is  hollow  behind,  or  else  blue;  while  in  others  she  is  known 
by  the  name  of  Skogmerte.  and  is  said  to  be  blue,  but  clad  in  a 
green  petticoat,  and  probably  corresponds  to  the  Swedish  Skogs- 
nyfoor.  Her  song  —  a  sound  often  heard  among  the  mountains 
—  is  said  to  be  hollow  and  mournful,  diflering  therein  froin  the 
music  of  the  subteiranean  beings,  which  is  described  bv  ear- 
witnesses  as  cheerful  and  fascinating.  But  she  is  not  every- 
where regarded  as  a  solitary  wood  nymph.  Huldremen  and 
Iluldrefolk  are  also  spoken  of,  who  live  together  in  the  moun- 
tains, and  are  almost  identical  with  the  subterranean  people.  In 
Ilardanger  the  Muldre  people  are  always  clad  in  green,  but  their 
cattle  are  blue,  and  may  be  taken  when  a  grown-up  person  ca-ts 
Lis  belt  over  them.  They  give  abundance  of  milk.  Tiic  Mul- 
dres  take  possession  of  the  forsaken  pasture-spots  in  the  moun- 
tains, and  invite  people  into  their  mounds,  where  delightful 
music  is  to  be  heard." — TAorpe's  Northern  Mythology. 


74 


ARNE. 


Soon  he  could  neither  sleep  nor  work  ;  and  altogether 
the  lad  got  in  a  very  poor  way.  Then  once  more  he 
called  from  the  cliff' — 

'  If  thou  art  a  huldre,  then  pray  do  not  spell  me ; 
If  thou  art  a  maiden,  then  hasten  to  tell  me.' 

"  But  there  came  no  answer ;  and  so  he  was  sure  she 
was  a  huldre.  He  gave  up  tending  cattle  ;  but  it  was  »11 
the  same  ;  wherever  he  went,  and  whatever  he  did,  he 
was  all  the  while  tliinking  of  the  beautiful  huldre  who 
blew  on  the  horn.  Soon  he  could  bear  it  no  longer  ;  and 
one  moonlight  evening  when  all  were  asleep,  he  stole 
away  into  the  forest,  which  stood  there  all  dark  at  the 
bottom,  but  with  its  tree-tops  bright  in  the  moonbeams. 
He  sat  down  on  the  cliff',  and  called  — 

'  Run  forward,  my  huldre;  my  love  has  o'ercome  me; 
My  life  is  a  burden ;   no  longer  hide  from  me.' 

"  The  lad  looked  and  looked  ;  but  she  didn't  appear. 
Then  he  heard  something  moving  behind  him  ;  he  turned 
round  and  saw  a  big  black  bear,  which  came  forward, 
sc^uatted  on  the  ground  and  looked  at  him.  But  he  ran 
away  from  tlie  cliff'  and  through  the  forest  as  fast  as  his 
legs  could  carry  him  :  if  the  bear  followed  him,  he  didn't 
know,  for  he  didn't  turn  round  till  he  lay  safely  in  bed. 

"  '  It  was  one  of  her  herd,' the  lad  thought;  'it  isn't 
wortli  while  to  go  there  any  more  ; '  and  he  didn't  go. 

'•  Tlicn,  one  day,  while  he  was  chopping  wood,  a  girl 
came  across  the  yard  who  was  the  living  picture  of  the 
huldre  :  but  when  she  drew  nearer,  he  saw  it  wasn't  she. 
Over  this  lie  pondered  much.  Then  he  saw  the  girl 
coming  l»ack,  and  again  while  she  was  at  a  distance  she 
seemed  to  be  llie  luildrc,  and  he  ran  to  meet  her ;  but  as 
soon  as  he  came  near,  he  saw  it  wasn't  she. 


THE    NUTTING-PARTY.  75 

"After  this,  wherever  the  lad  was  —  at  church  at 
dances,  or  any  other  parties  —  the  girl  was,  too  ;  and  still 
when  at  a  distance  she  seemed  to  be  the  huldre,  and 
when  near  she  was  somebody  else.  Then  he  asked  her 
whether  she  was  the  huldre  or  not,  but  she  only  laughed 
at  him.  '  One  may  as  well  leap  into  it  as  creep  into  it,' 
the  lad  thought ;  and  so  he  married  the  girl. 

"But  the  lad  had  hardly  done  this  before  he  ceased  to 
like  the  girl :  when  he  was  away  from  her  he  longed  for 
her ;  but  when  he  was  with  her  he  yearned  for  some  one 
he  did  not  see.  So  the  lad  behaved  very  badly  to  his 
wife  ;  but  she  suficred  in  silence. 

"  Then  one  day  when  he  was  out  looking  for  his 
horses,  he  came  again  to  the  cliff;  and  he  sat  down  and 
called  out  — 

'  Like  fairy  moonlight,  to  me  thou  seemest; 
Like  Midsummer-fires,  from  afar  thou  gleamest.' 

"  He  felt  that  it  did  him  good  to  sit  there  ;  and  after- 
wards he  went  whenever  things  were  wrong  at  home. 
His  wife  wept  when  he  was  gone. 

"  But  one  day  when  he  was  sitting  there,  he  saw  the 
huldre  sitting  all  alive  on  the  other  side  blowing  her  horn. 
He  called  over  — 

*Ah,  dear,  art  thou  come!  all  around  tliee  is  shining! 
Ah,  blow  now  again !  I  am  sitting  here  pining.' 

"  Then  she  answered  — 

'  Awa V  from  thv  mind  the  dreams  I  am  blowing; 
Thy  rye  is  all  rotting  for  want  of  mowing.' 

"  But  then  the  lad  felt  frightened  and  went  home  again. 
Ere  long,  however,  he  grew  so  tired  of  his  wife  that  he 
was  obliged  to  go  to  the  forest  again,  and  he  sat  down  on 
the  cliff.     Then  was  sunsf  over  to  him  — 


76  ARNE. 

'I  dreamed  thou  wast  liere;  ho,  hasten  to  bind  me  I 
No;   not  over  there,  but  behind  jou  will  find  me.' 

"  The  lad  jumped  up  and  looked  around  him,  and 
caught  a  glimpse  of  a  green  petticoat  just  slipping  away 
between  the  shrubs.  He  followed,  and  it  came  to  a  hunt- 
ing all  through  the  forest.  So  swift-footed  as  that  huldre, 
no  human  creature  could  be :  he  flung  steel  over  her 
again  and  again,  but  still  she  ran  on  just  as  well  as  ever. 
But  soon  the  lad  saw,  by  her  jiace,  that  she  was  begin- 
ning to  grow  tired,  though  he  saw,  too,  by  her  sliapc. 
that  she  could  be  no  other  than  the  huldre,  '  Xow,'  he 
thought,  '  you'll  be  mine  easily  ; '  and  he  caught  hold  on 
her  so  suddenly  and  roughly  that  they  both  fell,  and  rolled 
down  the  hills  a  long  way  before  they  could  stop  them- 
selves. Then  the  huldre  lauglied  till  it  seemed  to  the  lad 
the  mountains  sang  again.  He  took  her  upon  his  knee  ; 
and  so  beautiful  she  was,  that  never  in  all  his  life  lie  liad 
seen  any  one  like  her :  exactly  like  her,  he  thought  his 
wife  should  have  been.  '  Ah,  who  are  you  who  are  so 
beautiful  ? '  he  asked,  stroking  her  clicek.  Slie  l)lushed 
rosy  red.     '  I'm  your  wife,'  slie  answered." 

The  girls  laughed  much  at  tliat  tale,  and  ridiculed  the 
lad.  But  Godfather  asked  Arne  if  he  had  listened  well 
to  it. 

"Well,  now  I'll  tell  you  something,"  said  a  little  girl 
with  a  little  round  face,  and  a  very  little  nose  :  — 

"  Once  there  was  a  little  lad  who  wished  very  much 
to  woo  a  little  girl.  They  ^vere  both  grown  up  ;  but 
yet  they  were  very  little.  And  the  lad  couldn't  in  any 
way  muster  com  age  to  ask  her  to  have  him.  He  kept 
close  to  her  when  they  came  home  from  cliurch  ;  Init, 
somehow  or  other,  their  chat  was  always  about  the 
weather.  He  went  over  to  her  at  the  dancing-parties, 
and   nearly  danced   her  to   death  ;   but   still   he    couldn't 


THE    NUTTING-PARTY.  77 

bring  himself  to  say  what  he  wanted.  'You  must  learn 
to  write,'  he  said  to  himself;  'then  you'll  manage  mat- 
ters.' And  the  lad  set  to  writing  ;  but  he  thought  it  could 
nL'Vcr  be  done  well  enough  ;  and  so  he  wrote  a  whole 
year  round  before  he  dared  do  his  letter.  Now,  the  thing 
was  to  get  it  giv'en  to  her  without  anybody  seeing.  He 
waited  till  one  day  when  they  were  standing  all  by  them- 
selves behind  the  church.  '  I've  got  a  letter  for  you,' 
said  the  lad.  '  But  I  can't  read  writing,'  the  girl  an- 
swered. 

"  And  there  the  lad  stood. 

"  Then  he  went  to  service  at  the  girl's  father's  house ; 
and  he  used  to  keep  hovering  round  her  all  day  long. 
Once  lie  had  nearly  brought  himself  to  speak  ;  in  fact, 
he  had  already  opened  his  mouth  ;  but  then  a  big  fly  flew 
in  it.  '  Well,  I  hope,  at  any  rate,  nobody  else  will  come 
to  take  her  away,'  the  lad  thought ;  but  nobody  came  to 
take  lier,  because  she  was  so  very  little. 

"  By-and-by,  however,  some  one  did  come,  and  he, 
too,  was  little.  The  lad  could  see  very  well  what  he 
wanted  ;  and  when  he  and  the  girl  went  up-stairs  to- 
gether, the  lad  placed  himself  at  the  key-hole.  Then  he 
who  was  inside  made  his  ofler.  '  Bad  luck  to  me,  I,  cod- 
flsh,  wlio  didn't  make  haste  ! '  the  lad  thouglit.      lie  who 

was  inside  kissed  tlie   girl  just  on   her   lips .      'No 

doubt  that  tasted  nice,'  the  lad  th6ught.  But  lie  who  was 
inside  took  the  girl  on  liis  lap.  '  Oh,  dear  me  !  what  a 
world  this  is  !  '  the  lad  said,  and  began  crving.  Then  the 
girl  heard  him  and  went  to  tlie  docir.  '  What  do  you 
want,  you  nasty  boy?'  said  slie,  '  whv  can't  you  leave 
me  alone?'  —  'I?  I  only  wanted  to  ask  vou  to  have  me 
for  your  bridesman.'  —  '  No  ;  that,  my  brotlicr's  going  to 
be,'  the  girl  answered,  banging  the  door  to. 

"  And  there  the  lad  stood.-' 


78  ARNE. 

The  girls  laughed  very  much  at  this  tale,  and  after- 
wards pelted  each  other  with  husks. 

Then  Godfather  wished  Eli  Boen  to  tell  something. 

"What,  then,  must  it  be?" 

"  Well,  she  might  tell  what  she  had  told  him  on  the 
hill,  the  last  time  he  came  to  see  her  parents,  when  she 
gave  him  the  new  garters.  Eli  laughed  very  much  ;  and 
it  was  some  time  before  she  would  tell  it :  however,  she 
did  at  last,  — 

"  A  lad  and  a  girl  were  once  walking  together  on  a 
road.  '  Ah,  look  at  that  thrush  that  follows  us  ! '  the  girl 
said.  '  It  follows  me^  said  the  lad.  '  It's  just  as  likely 
to  be  me^  the  girl  answered.  '  That,  we'll  soon  find  out,' 
said  the  lad  ;  '  you  go  that  way,  while  I  go  this,  and  we'll 
meet  up  yonder.'  They  did  so.  '  Well,  didn't  it  follow 
me .'' '  the  lad  asked,  when  they  met,  '  No  ;  it  followed 
me,'  answered  the  girl.  '  Then,  there  must  be  two.' 
They  went  together  again  for  some  distance,  but  then 
there  was  only  one  thrusli ;  and  the  lad  thought  it  flew 
on  his  side,  but  the  girl  thought  it  flew  on  hers.  '  Devil 
a  bit,  I  care  for  that  thrush,'  said  the  lad.  '  Nor  do  I,' 
answered  the  girl. 

"  But  no  sooner  had  they  said  this,  than  the  thrush 
flew  away.  '  It  was  on  jK^?^r  side,  it  was,'  said  the  lad. 
'  Thank  you,'   answered  the  girl ;  '  but  I  clearly  saw  it 

was  on  your  side. But  see  !  there  it  comes  agaiii  !  ' 

'  Indeed,  it's  on  7ny  side,'  the  lad  exclaimed.  Then  tlie 
girl  got  angry:  'Ah,  well,  I  wish  I  may  never  stir  if  I 
go  with  you  any  longer  ! '  and  she  went  away. 

"  Then  the  thrush,  too,  left  the  lad  ;  and  he  felt  so  dull 
that  he  called  out  to  the  girl,  '  Is  the  thrush  with  you  ? ' 
—  'No;  isn't  it  with  you?'  —  'Ah,  no;  you  must  come 
here  again,  and  then  perhaps  it  will  follow  you.' 

"  The  girl  came  ;  and  she  and  the  lad  walked  on  to- 


THE    NUTTING-PARTY.  79 

gethcr,  hand  in  hand.  '  Qiiitt,  quitt,  quitt,  quitt ! '  sounded 
on  the  girl's  side  ;  '  quitt,  quitt,  quitt,  quitt ! '  sounded  on 
the  hid's  side  ;  '  quitt,  quitt,  quitt,  quitt ! '  sounded  on 
every  side  ;  and  when  they  looked  there  were  a  hundred 
thousand  million  thrushes  all  round  them.  '  Ah,  how 
nice  this  is!'  said  the  girl,  looking  up  at  the  lad.  'Ah, 
God  bless  you  ! '  said  he,  and  kissed  her." 

All  the  girls  thought  this  was  such  a  nice  tale. 

Then  Godfatlier  said  they  must  tell  what  they  had 
dreamed  last  night,  and  he  would  decide  who  had 
dreamed  the  nicest  things. 

''  Tell  what  they  had  dreamed  !     No  ;  impossible  !  " 

And  tlien  there  was  no  end  of  tittering  and  whispering. 
But  soon  one  after  another  began  to  think  she  had  such  a 
nice  dream  last  night ;  and  tlien  others  tliought  it  could 
not  possibly  be  so  nice  as  what  they  had  dreamed  ;  and 
at  last  they  all  got  a  great  mind  for  telling  their  dreams. 
Yet  thev  must  not  be  told  aloud,  but  to  one  only,  and 
that  one  must  by  no  means  be  Godfather.  Arne  had  all 
this  time  been  sitting  quietly  a  little  lower  down  the  hill, 
and  so  tlie  girls  thought  they  dared  tell  their  dreams  to 
him. 

Then  Arne  seated  himself  under  a  hazel-bush  ;  and 
Aasa,  tlie  girl  who  had  told  the  first  tale,  came  over  to 
him.     Slie  hesitated  a  while,  but  then  began, — 

"  I  dreamed  I  was  standing  by  a  large  lake.  Then  I 
saw  one  walking  on  the  water,  and  it  was  one  whose 
name  1  will  not  say.  He  stepped  into  a  large  water-lily, 
and  sat  there  singing.  But  I  launclicd  out  upon  one  of 
the  large  leaves  of  the  lily  which  lay  floating  on  the 
water ;  for  on  it  I  would  row  o\er  to  him.  liut  no 
sooner  had  I  come  upon  the  leaf  than  it  began  to  sink 
with  me,  and  I  became  mucii  frightened,  and  I  wept. 
Then  he  came  rowing  along  in  the  water-lily,  ami  lifted 


So  ARNE. 

me  up  to  him  ;  and  we  rowed  all  over  the  whole  lake. 
Wasn't  that  a  nice  dream  ?  " 

Next  came  the  little  girl  who  had  told  the  tale  about 
the  little  lad, — 

"  I  dreamed  I  had  caught  a  little  bird,  and  I  was  so 
pleased  with  it,  and  I  thought  I  wouldn't  let  it  loose  till  I 
came  home  in  our  room.  But  there  I  dared  not  let  it 
loose,  for  I  was  afraid  father  and  mother  might  tell  me  to 
let  it  go  again.  So  I  took  it  up-stairs  ;  but  I  could  not 
let  it  loose  there,  either,  for  the  cat  was  lurking  about. 
Then  I  didn't  know  what  in  the  world  to  do  ;  yet  I  took 
it  into  the  barn.  Dear  me,  there  were  so  many  cracks,  I 
was  afraid  it  might  go  away  !  Well,  then  I  went  down 
again  into  the  yard  ;  and  there,  it  seemed  to  me  some  one 
was  standing  whose  name  I  will  not  say.  Pie  stood 
playing  with  a  big,  big  dog.  '  I  would  rather  play  with 
that  bird  of  yours,'  he  said,  and  drew  very  near  to  me. 
But  tlicn  it  seemed  to  me  I  began  running  away  ;  and 
both  he  and  tlie  big  dog  ran  after  me  all  round  tlie  yard  ; 
but  then  motlier  opened  the  front  door,  pulled  me  hastily 
in,  and  banged  the  door  after  me.  The  lad,  however, 
stood  laughing  outside,  with  his  face  against  the  window- 
pane.  '  Look,  here's  the  bird,'  he  said  ;  and,  only  think, 
he  had  my  bird  out  there !  Wasn't  that  a  beautiful 
dream .' " 

Then  came  the  girl  who  had  told  about  the  thruslies  — 
P21i,  tliey  called  her.  She  was  laughing  so  nuich  that  she 
could  not  speak  for  some  time  ;  but  at  last  she  began,  — 

'•  I  had  been  looking  forward  with  very  much  pleasure 
to  our  nutting  in  the  wood  to-day;  and  so  last  night  I 
dreamed  I  was  sitting  here  on  the  hill.  The  sun  shone 
brightly  ;  and  I  had  my  lap  full  of  nuts.  But  there  came 
a  little  sfjuirrcl  among  them,  and  it  sat  on  its  hind-legs 
and  ate  tliem  all  up.     Wasn't  that  a  funny  dream?" 


THE    NUTTING-PARTY.  8l 

Afterwards  some  more  dreams  were  told  him  ;  and 
then  the  girls  would  have  him  say  which  was  the  nicest. 
Of  course,  he  must  have  plenty  of  time  for  consideration  ; 
and  meanwhile  Godfatlier  and  the  whole  flock  went 
down  to  the  house,  leaving  Arne  to  follow.  They  skipped 
down  the  hill,  and  when  they  came  to  the  plain  went  all 
in  a  row  singing  towards  the  house. 

Arne  sat  alone  on  the  hill,  listening  to  the  singing. 
Strong  sunlight  fell  on  the  group  of  girls,  and  their  white 
bodices  shone  bright,  as  they  went  dancing  over  the 
meadows,  evcrv  now  and  then  clasping  each  other  round 
the  waist ;  while  Godfather  limped  behind,  threatening 
theni  with  a  stick  because  thev  trod  down  his  hay.  Arne 
thought  no  more  of  the  dreams,  and  soon  he  no  longer 
looked  after  the  girls.  His  thoughts  ^vent  floating  far 
away  bevond  the  valley,  like  the  tine  air-threads,  while 
he  remained  behind  on  the  hill,  spinning  ;  and  before  he 
was  aware  of  it  he  had  woven  a  close  web  of  sadness. 
More  than  ever,  lie  longed  to  go  away. 

''  Why  stay  any  longer?  "  he  said  to  himself;  "  surely, 
I've  been  lingering  long  enough  ncnv  I  "  He  promised 
himself  that  he  would  speak  to  the  motlier  about  it  as 
soon  as  he  reacheil  home,  however  it  might  turn  (nit. 

With  greater  force  than  ever,  his  thoughts  turned  to 
his  song,  ••  C)\'er  the  mountains  iiigh  :  "'  and  nc\cr  before 
had  the  words  come  so  swiftly,  or  linked  themselves  into 
rhvme  so  easily  ;  tliev  seemed  almost  like  girls  sitting  in 
a  circle  on  the  brow  of  a  hill.  He  had  a  piece  of  paper 
with  him,  and  placing  it  upon  his  knee,  he  ^NVote  down 
the  verses  as  thev  came.  \\'hen  he  had  tinished  tlie  song, 
he  rose  like  one  treed  tVom  a  Imrden.  He  felt  unwilling 
to  see  an\'  one,  and  went  homewards  b\"  the  wav  through 
the  wood,  though  he  knew  he  sliould  tlien  have  to  walk 
during  the  night.     The  lirst  time  he  stopped  to  rest  on 

6 


82  ARNE. 

the  way,  he  put  his  hand  to  his  pocket  to  take  out  the 
song,  intending  to  sing  it  aloud  to  himself  through  the 
wood  ;  hut  he  found  he  had  left  it  behind  at  the  place 
where  it  was  composed. 

One  of  the  girls  went  on  the  hill  to  look  for  him  ;   she 
did  not  find  him,  but  she  found  his  song. 


LOOSKNING    THE    WE  Al  II  EK-VA.NE.  83 


X. 

LOOSENING    THE    WEATHER-VANE. 

TO  speak  to  the  mother  about  ^l^oing  away,  was  more 
casih'  thouj^ht  of  than  done.  He  spoke  agahi 
ahout  Christian,  and  those  k>tters  which  had  never  come  ; 
but  then  the  mother  went  away,  and  for  days  afterwards 
he  thouL^ht  her  eyes  kjoked  red  and  swollen.  He  noticed, 
too.  {.hat  she  then  j^ot  nicer  food  for  him  than  usual  ;  and 
this  L;ave  him  another  sign  of  her  state  of  mind  with 
rcgaril  to  him. 

One  (lav  he  went  to  cut  fagots  in  a  wood  which  bor- 
dered upon  another  belonging  to  the  parsonage,  and 
through  which  tlie  road  ran.  Just  where  he  was  going 
to  cut  his  fagots,  people  used  to  couie  in  autunm  to 
gatlier  wliortleberries.  He  had  laid  asitie  his  axe  to 
take  otV  his  Jacket,  and  was  just  going  to  begin  ^vork, 
when  two  girls  came  walking  along  with  a  lKi<l\et  to 
gather  bci'vies.  He  used  generall\-  to  hide  himself  rather 
than  meet  girls,  and  he  did  so  now. 

••  A\\  I   onK   see  wliat  a  lot  of  berries  !      Eli,  YAx  I  " 

••  ^  es.  (kar.  I  see  I  "' 

"•Well.  but.  then,  d(.)n't  go  any  f  irther  ;  here  are  many 
baskethik." 

'•  1  thought  I  heard  a  rustling  among  the  trees  I  " 

'•  Oh.  nonsense  I  " 

The  girls  rushed  towards  each  other,  clasped  each  other 
round  the  waist,  and  for  a  liltle  while  stood  still,  scarcelv 
drawing  breath.  "It's  nothing.  1  dare  sav  ;  come,  let's 
go  on  picking.'' 


84  ARNE. 

"Well,  so  we  will." 

And  they  went  on. 

"  It  was  nice  you  came  to  the  parsonage  to-day,  Eli. 
Haven't  you  anything  to  tell  mc?" 

"  Yes  ;  I've  been  to  see  Godfather." 

"Well,  you've  told  me  tliat ;  but  haven't  you  anything 
to  tell  me  about  him  —  you  know  who  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed  I  have  !  " 

"  Oh  !  Eli,  have  you  !  make  haste  and  tell  me  !  " 

"  He  has  been  there  again." 

"  Nonsense?" 

"  Indeed,  he  has  :  father  and  mother  pretended  to  know 
nothing  of  it ;  but  I  went  up-stairs  and  hid  myself." 

"Well,  what  then?  did  lie  come  after  you?" 

"Yes;  I  believe  father  told  hiu:i  where  I  was;  he's 
always  so  tiresome  now." 

"And  so  he  came  lliere?  —  vSit  down,  sit  down  ;  here, 
near  me.     Well,  and  then  he  came  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  he  didn't  say  much,  for  he  was  so  bash- 
ful." 

"  Tell  me  what  he  said,  every  word ;  pray,  every 
word  ! " 

"'Are  you  afraid  of  me?'  he  said.  'Why  should 
I  be  afraid?'  I  answered.  'You  know  what  I  want 
to  say  to  you,'  he  said,  sitting  down  beside  me  on  the 
chest." 

"  ]3eside  you  !  " 

"  And  he  took  me  round  my  waist." 

"  Round  your  waist ;   nonsense  !  " 

"  I   wislicd   very   much    to    get    loose    again ;    but    he 

wouldn't    let    me.       'Dear    Eli,'    he    said "       She 

laughed,  and  the  other  one  laughed,  loo. 

"Well?   well?" 

"  '  Will  y(Hi  he  my  wife  ? '     Ha,  ha,  ha  !  " 


LOOSENING    THE    WEATIIER-VANE.  85 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  " 

And  then  both  laiijjjhcd  together,  "  Ila,  ha,  ha,  ha  !  " 

At  hist  the  hiugliing  came  to  an  end,  and  they  were 
])oth  quiet  for  a  while.  Tlien  the  one  who  had  first 
spoken  asked  in  a  low  voice,  "Wasn't  it  strange  he  took 
you  round  your  waist?" 

Either  the  other  girl  did  not  answer  that  question,  or 
she  answered  in  so  low  a  voice  that  it  could  not  be  heard  ; 
perhaps  she  only  answered  by  a  smile. 

"•  Didn't  your  father  or  your  mother  say  anything  after- 
wards?" asketl  the  first  girl,  after  a  pause. 

'•  Father  came  up  and  looked  at  me  ;  but  I  turned  away 
from  liim  because  he  laughed  at  me." 

''.Vnd  voTir  mother?" 

'' Xo.  she  tlidn't  say  anything;  but  she  wasn't  so  strict 
as  usual." 

'■  Well,  you've  done  with  him,  I  think?" 

"  Of  course  !  " 

Then  there  was  again  silence  awhile. 

'•  Was  it  thus  he  took  you  round  your  waist?" 

''Xo  ;  thus." 

"Well,  then;  — it  was  thus  .   .   ." 

"Eli?" 

"Well?" 

''  Do  you  think  there  will  ever  be  anybody  come  in  that 
wav  to  me  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  there  will  !  " 

"  Xoiisense  I  Ah.  Eli?  If  he  took  me  round  the 
waist?"      v'^he   hitl   her  face. 

Then  tliev  laughed  again  ;  and  there  was  much  whisper- 
ing and  tittering. 

Soon  the  girls  went  awa\-  :  thev  had  not  seen  either 
Arne   or   the   axe   and   iacl^el.   and    he  was  glad   oi"  it. 

A  few  days  after,  he  gave  Opplands-Knut  a  little  farm 


86  ARNE. 

on  Kampen.  "  You  shall  not  be  lonely  any  longer," 
Arne  said. 

That  winter  Arne  went  to  the  parsonage  for  some  time 
to  do  carpentry ;  and  both  the  girls  were  often  tliere  to- 
gether. When  Arne  saw  them,  he  often  wondered  who 
it  might  be  that  now  came  to  woo  Eli  Boen. 

One  day  he  had  to  drive  for  the  clergyman's  daughter 
and  Eli  ;  he  could  not  understand  a  word  they  said, 
though  he  had  very  quick  ears.  Sometimes  JSIathildc 
spoke  to  him ;  and  then  Eli  always  laughed  and  liid  her 
face.  Mathilde  asked  him  if  it  was  true  that  he  could 
make  verses.  "  No,"  he  said  quickly ;  then  they  both 
laughed ;  and  chattered  and  laughed  again.  He  felt 
vexed  ;  and  afterwards  when  he  met  them  seemed  not  to 
take  any  notice  of  them. 

Once  he  was  sitting  in  the  servants'  hall  while  a  dance 
was  going  on,  and  Mathilde  and  Eli  both  came  to  see  it. 
Tliey  stood  together  in  a  corner,  disputing  al)out  some- 
thing;  Eli  would  not  do  it,  but  IVIathilde  would,  and  she 
at  last  gained  her  point.  Then  they  botli  came  over  to 
Arne,  courtesicd,  and  asked  liim  if  he  could  dance.  lie 
said  he  could  not ;  and  then  both  turned  aside  and  ran 
away,  laugliing.  In  fact,  they  were  always  laughing, 
Arne  thouglit ;  and  he  became  brave.  But  soon  after,  he 
got  tlie  clergyman's  foster-son,  a  boy  of  about  twelve,  to 
teach  him  to  dance,  when  no  one  was  by. 

Eli  had  a  little  brother  of  the  same  age  as  the  clergy- 
man's foster-son.  These  two  boys  were  phi\  fellows  ; 
and  Arne  made  sledges,  snow-shoes  and  snares  for  tliem  ; 
and  often  talked  to  them  about  their  sisters,  especially 
alxnit  Eli.  One  day  Eli's  brother  brought  Arne  a  mes- 
sage that  he  ought  to  make  his  hair  a  little  smoother. 
"  Who   said   that?" 

"  Eli  did  ;  hut  she  told  me  not  to  say  it  was  she." 


LOOSEXIXG    THE    WEATIIER-VANE.  87 

A  few  days  after,  Arne  sent  word  that  Eli  ought  to 
laugh  a  little  less.  The  boy  brought  back  word  that 
Arue  ought  by  all  means  to  laugh  a  little  more. 

Eli's  brother  once  asked  Arue  to  give  him  something 
that  he  had  written.  lie  complied,  without  thinking  any 
more  about  the  matter.  But  in  a  few  days  after,  the  boy, 
thinking  to  please  Arne,  told  him  that  Eli  and  Mathilde 
liked  his  writing  very  much. 

'■  Where,  then,  have  they  seen  any  of  it?  " 

"  Well,  it  was  for  them,  I  asked  for  some  of  it  the 
other  day." 

Then  Arne  asked  the  boys  to  bring  him  something 
their  sisters  had  written.  They  did  so  ;  and  he  corrected 
the  errors  in  the  writing  with  his  carpenter's  pencil,  and 
asked  the  boys  to  lay  it  in  some  place  where  their  sisters 
might  easily  fuul  it.  Soon  after,  he  found  the  pa2)er  in 
his  jacket  pocket;  and  at  the  foot  was  written,  '"Cor- 
rected by  a  conceited  fellow." 

The  next  day,  Arne  completed  his  work  at  the  parson- 
age, and  returned  home.  So  gentle  as  he  was  that  win- 
ter, the  mother  had  never  seen  him,  since  that  sad  time 
just  after  the  father's  dcatli.  He  read  the  sermon  to  her, 
accompanied  her  to  chinch,  and  was  in  every  way  very 
kind.  But  she  knew  onlv  too  well  that  one  great  reason 
for  liis  increased  kindness  was,  that  he  meant  to  go  away 
when  spring  came.  Then  one  dav  a  message  came  from 
Boen,  asking  him  to  go  there  to  do  carpentr\-. 

Arne  started,  antl,  a})parcntlv  without  thinking  of  wliat 
he  said,  replied  that  he  would  come.  But  no  sooner  had 
the  messenger  left  than  tlie  motlier  said,  '•  You  mav  well 
be  astonished  I      From  I'xien?" 

"Well,  is  there  an\  thing  strange  in  that?"  Arne  asked, 
without  looking  at  her. 

"  From  Boen  !  "  the  mother  exclaimed  once  more. 


88  ARNE. 

"  And,  why  not  from  Boen,  as  well  as  any  other  place  ?" 
he  answered,  looking  up  a  little. 

"  From  Boen  and  Birgit  Boen  !  —  Baard,  who  made 
your  father  a  cripple,  and  all  only  for  Birgit's  sake  ! " 

"What  do  you  say?"  exclaimed  Arne ;  "was  that 
Baard  Boen  ? " 

jSIother  and  son  stood  looking  at  each  other.  The 
whole  of  the  father's  life  seemed  unrolled  before  them, 
and  at  that  moment  they  saw  the  black  thread  which  had 
always  run  through  it.  Then  they  began  talking  about 
those  grand  days  of  his,  when  old  Eli  Boen  had  himself 
offered  him  his  daughter  Birgit,  and  he  had  refused  her : 
they  passed  on  through  his  life  till  the  day  when  his  spine . 
had  been  broken  ;  and  they  both  agreed  that  Baard's  fault 
was  the  less.  Still,  it  was  he  who  had  made  the  father  a 
cripple  ;  he,  it  was. 

"Have  I  not  even  yet  done  with  father.^"  Arne 
thought ;  and  determined  at  the  same  moment  that  he 
would  go  to  Boen. 

As  he  went  walking,  with  his  saw  on  his  shoulder,  over 
the  ice  towards  Biien,  it  seemed  to  him  a  beautiful  place. 
The  dwelling-house  always  seemed  as  if  it  was  fresh 
painted;  and  —  perhaps  because  he  felt  a  little  cold  —  it 
just  then  looked  to  him  very  sheltered  and  comfortable. 
He  did  not,  however,  go  straight  in.  but  went  round  by 
the  cattle-house,  where  a  flock  of  thick-haired  goats 
stood  in  tlie  snow,  gnawing  the  bark  off  some  lir  twigs. 
A  sheplierd's  dog  ran  backwards  and  forwards  on  the 
barn  steps,  barking  as  if  the  devil  was  coming  to  the 
house  ;  but  wlien  Arne  went  to  him,  he  wagged  his  tail 
and  allowed  himself  to  be  patted.  The  kitchen  door  at 
the  upper  end  of  the  house  was  often  opened,  and  Arne 
looked  over  there  every  time  ;  but  he  saw  no  one  except 
the  milkmaid,  carrying  some  pails,  or  the  cook,  throwing 


LOOSKXING    THE    WEATHER-VANE.  89 

soincthinj^  to  the  goats.  In  the  barn  the  threshers  were 
hard  at  work  ;  and  to  the  left,  in  front  of  the  woodshed, 
a  hid  stood  chopping  fagots,  with  many  piles  of  theni 
behind  him. 

Arne  laid  away  his  saw  and  went  into  the  kitchen  : 
the  floor  was  strewed  with  white  sand  and  chopped 
jiniiper  leaves ;  copper  kettles  shone  on  the  walls  ; 
china  and  earthenware  stood  in  rows  upon  the  shelves  ; 
and  the  servants  were  preparing  the  dinner.  Arnc 
asked  for  Baard.  "  Step  into  the  sitting-room,"  said 
one  of  the  servants,  pointing  to  an  inner  door  with  a 
brass  knob.  He  went  in-:  the  room  was  brightly  painted 
—  tlie  ceiling,  with  clusters  of  roses;  the  cupboards,  with 
red,  and  the  names  of  the  owners  in  black  letters  ;  the 
bedstead,  also  with  red,  bordered  with  blue  stripes. 
Beside  the  stove,  a  broad-shoiddered,  mild-looking  man, 
with  long  light  hair,  sat  hooping  some  tubs  ;  and  at  the 
large  table,  a  slender,  tall  woman,  in  a  close-fitting  dress 
and  linen  cap,  sat  sorting  some  corn  into  two  heaps  :  no 
one  else  was  in  the  room. 

'•  Good  dav,  and  a  l)lessing  on  the  work,"  said  Arne, 
taking  otF  his  cap.  Both  looked  up  ;  and  the  man  smiled 
ami  asked  who  it  was.  ''  I  am  he  who  has  come  to  do 
carpentr\  ." 

I'hc  man  smiled  still  more,  and  said,  while  he  leaned 
forward  again  to  his  work,  •■  Oh,  all  riglU.  Arne  Kampen." 

*•  ^Vrne  Kampen.'"  exclaimed  the  wife,  staring  down 
at  the  floor.  The  man  looked  up  ([uicklv.  and  said,  smil- 
ing once  more,  ■•  A  son  of  Nils,  the  tailor;"  and  then  he 
began  working  again. 

v'^oon  the  wife  rose,  went  to  the  shelf,  turned  from  it  to 
the  cupboard,  once  more  tuined  awav.  and,  while  rum- 
maging for  something  in  the  table  drawer,  she  asked. 
without  looking  up,  "Is  Ac  going  to   work  Iicrcy'' 


90  ARNE. 

"  Yes,  that  he  is,"  the  husband  answered,  also  without 
looking  up, 

"  Nobody  has  asked  you  to  sit  down,  it  seems,"  he 
added,  turning  to  Arne,  who  then  took  a  seat.  The  wife 
went  out,  and  the  husband  continued  working:  and  so 
Arne  asked  whether  he,  too,  might  begin.  "  We'll  have 
dinner  first." 

The  wife  did  not  return  ;  but  next  time  the  door  opened, 
it  was  Eli  who  entered.  At  first,  she  appeared  not  to  see 
Arne,  but  when  he  rose  to  meet  her  she  turned  half  round 
and  gave  him  her  hand  ;  yet  she  did  not  look  at  him. 
They  exchanged  a  few  words,  while  the  father  worked  on. 
Eli  was  slender  and  upright,  her  hands  were  small,  with 
round  wrists,  her  hair  was  braided,  and  she  wore  a  dress 
with  a  close-fitting  bodice.  Slie  laid  the  table  for  dinner  : 
the  laljorers  dined  in  the  next  room  ;  but  Arne,  with  the 
family. 

"  Isn't  your  mother  coming?"  asked  the  husband. 

"  No  ;   she's  up-stairs,  weighing  wool." 

"  Have  vou  asked  her  to  come?  " 

''  Yes  :  but  she  says  she  won't  have  anything." 

There  was  silence  for  a  while. 

"  But  it's  cold  up-stairs." 

"  vShe  wouldn't  let  me  make  a  fire." 

After  dinner,  Arne  began  to  work  ;  and  in  the  evening 
he  again  sat  with  the  family.  The  wife  and  Eli  sewed, 
while  tlic  husband  employed  himself  in  some  trifiing 
work,  and  Arne  helped  him.  They  worked  (mi  in  silence 
abovL'  an  hour;  for  Eli,  who  seemed  to  be  the  one  who 
U'-iKilK  (lid  the  talking,  now  said  nothing.  Arne  thought 
with  diMuav  how  often  it  was  just  so  in  his  own  home  ; 
and  yet  he  liad  never  felt  it  till  now.  At  last,  Eli  seemed 
to  tliinl<  slic  liad  been  silent  cjuite  long  enough,  and.  after 
drawing  a   deep  l)reath,  she   burst  out  laughing.     Tlicn 


LOOSENING    THE    WEATHER-VANE.  9I 

the  father  laughed  ;  and  Arne  felt  it  was  ridiculous  and 
began,  too.  Afterwards  they  talked  about  several  things, 
soon  the  conversation  was  principally  between  Arne  and 
Eli,  the  father  now  and  tlien  j^utting  in  a  word  edgewise. 
But  once  after  Arne  had  been  s^jeaking  at  some  length, 
he  looked  up,  and  his  eyes  met  those  of  the  mother,  Bir- 
git,  who  had  laid  down  her  work,  and  sat  gazing  at  him. 
Then  she  went  on  with  her  work  again  ;  but  the  next 
word  he  spoke  made  her  look  up  once  more. 

Bedtime  drew  near,  and  they  all  went  to  their  own 
rooms.  Arne  thought  he  would  take  notice  of  the  dream 
he  had  the  first  night  in  a  fresh  place  ;  but  he  could  see 
no  meaning  in  it.  During  tlie  whole  day  he  had  talked 
very  little  with  the  husband  ;  yet  now  in  the  night  he 
dreamed  of  no  one  in  the  house  but  him.  The  last  thing 
was,  tliat  J3aard  \\'as  sitting  playing  at  cards  with  Nils, 
the  tailor.  The  latter  looked  very  pale  and  angry  ;  but 
Baard  was  smiling,  and  he  took  all  the  tricks. 

Arne  stayed  at  Boen  several  days  ;  and  a  great  deal  was 
done,  but  very  little  said.  Not  only  the  people  in  tlie 
parlor,  but  also  the  servants,  the  housemen,  eyer\body 
about  the  place,  even  the  women,  \yere  siietit.  In  the 
yard  \vas  an  old  dog  wliich  barked  wliencyer  a  stranger 
came  near;  but  if  any  of  the  peoj^ilc  belonging  to  the 
place  heard  him,  they  alwa\s  said  "  Hush  !  "  and  then  he 
went  away,  gro\\iing.  and  lay  down.  At  .Vrne's  o\yn 
home  was  a  large  Ayeather-yane.  and  here  was  one  still 
larger  which  he  particularly  noticed  liecause  it  diil  not 
turn.  It  shook  wheneyer  the  wind  was  high,  as  though 
it  wished  to  turn  ;  and  Arne  stood  looking  at  it  so  long 
that  he  felt  at  last  he  nnist  climb  up  to  unloose  it.  It  was 
not  frozen  fast,  as  he  thought  ;  but  a  stick  was  tixed 
against  it  to  prevent  it  from  turning.  lie  took  the  stick  out 
and  threw  it  down  ;  Baard  was  just  passing  below,  and  it 
struck  him. 


92  ARXE. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  said  he,  looking  up. 

"  I'm  loosening  the  vane." 

"  Leave  it  alone  ;  it  makes  a  w^ailing  noise  when  it 
turns." 

"  Well,  I  think  even  that's  better  than  silence,"  said 
Arne,  seating  himself  astride  on  the  ridge  of  the  roof. 
Baard  looked  up  at  Arne,  and  Arne  down  at  Baard. 
Then  Baard  smiled  and  said,  "  He  who  must  wail  when 
he  speaks  had  better  be  silent." 

Words  sometimes  haunt  us  long  after  they  were  uttered, 
especially  when  they  were  last  words.  So  Baard's  words 
followed  Arne  as  he  came  down  from  the  roof  in  the  cold, 
and  they  were  still  with  him  when  he  went  into  the  sit- 
ting-room in  the  evening.  It  was  twilight ;  and  Eli  stood 
at  the  window,  looking  away  over  the  ice  which  lay 
bright  in  the  moonlight.  Arne  went  to  the  other  win- 
dow, and  looked  out  also.  Indoors  it  was  warm  and 
quiet ;  outdoors  it  was  cold,  and  a  sharp  wind  swept 
through  the  vale,  bending  the  branches  of  tlie  trees,  and 
making  their  shadows  creep  trembling  on  the  snow.  A 
light  shone  over  from  the  parsonage,  then  vanished,  then 
appeared  again,  taking  various  sliapcs  and  colors,  as  a 
distant  light  always  seems  to  do  when  one  looks  at  it  long 
and  intently.  Opjoosite,  the  mountain  stood  dark,  with 
deep  shadow  at  its  foot,  where  a  thousand  fiiry  tales 
hovered  ;  but  with  its  snowy  upper  plains  briglit  in  tlie 
moonlight.  The  stars  were  shining,  and  northern  liglits 
were  ilickering  in  one  quarter  of  the  sky,  but  they  did  n(;t 
spread.  A  little  way  from  the  window,  down  towards 
tlie  water,  stood  some  trees,  whose  shadows  kept  stealing 
over  to  eacli  other ;  but  the  tall  ash  stood  alone,  writing 
on  the  snow. 

All  was  silent,  save  now  and  then,  when  a  long  wailing 
sound  was  heard.     "What's  that.?"  asked  Arne. 


LOOSENING    THE    WEATHER-VANE.  93 

"  It's  the  weather-vane,"  said  Eli ;  and  after  a  Httle 
while  she  added  in  a  lower  tone,  as  if  to  herself,  "  it  must 
have  eome  unfastened." 

But  Arne  had  been  like  one  who  wished  to  speak  and 
coidd  not.  Now  he  said,  "  Do  you  remember  that  tale 
about  the  thrushes  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  It  was  you  who  told  it,  indeed.     It  was  a  nice  tale." 

"  I  often  think  there's  something-  that  sings  when  all  is 
still,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  so  soft  and  low  that  he  felt  as  if 
he  heard  it  now  for  the  first  time. 

"It  is  the  good  withinour  own  souls,"  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him  as  if  she  thought  that  answer  meant 
too  much  ;  and  they  both  stood  silent  a  few  moments. 
Then  she  asked,  while  she  wrote  with  her  finger  on  the 
window-pane,  "  Have  you  made  any  songs  lately?" 

He  blushed  :  but  she  did  not  see  it,  and  so  she  asked 
once  more,  "  How  do  }ou  manage  to  make  songs?" 

"  Should  you  like  to  know?" 

"Well,  yes:  — I  should." 

"  I  store  up  the  thoughts  that  other  people  let  slip." 

She  was  silent  for  a  long  while  ;  perhaps  thinking  she 
might  have  had  some  thoughts  fit  for  songs,  but  had  let 
them  slip. 

"  How  strange  it  is,"  she  said,  at  last,  as  though  to  her- 
self, and  beginning  to  write  again  on  tlie  window-pane. 

"  I  made  a  song  the  first  time  I  had  seen  you." 

"Where  was  that?  " 

"  Behind  the  parson.ige.  that  e\'cning  you  went  away 
from  there  ;  —  I  saw  vou  in  tlie  water." 

She  laughed,  and  was  quiet  for  a  while. 

"Let  me  hear  that  song." 

Arne  had  never  done  such  a  thing  before,  but  he 
repeated  the  song  now  : 


94  AKNE. 

"  Fair  Venevill  bounded  on  lithesome  feet 
Her  lover  to  meet,"  &c.* 

Eli  listened  attentively,  and  stood  silent  long  after  he 
had  finished.  At  last  she  exclaimed,  "Ah,  what  a  pity 
for  her !  " 

'•  I  feel  as  if  I  had  not  made  that  song  myself,"  he  said  ; 
and  then  stood  like  her,  thinking  over  it. 

"But  that  won't  be  my  flite,  I  hope,"  she  said,  after  a 
pause. 

"No  ;  I  was  thinking  rather  of  myself." 

"Will  it  be  your  fate,  then.?" 

"  I  don't  know  ;  I  felt  so  then." 

"  How  strange."     She  wrote  on  the  panes  again. 

The  next  day,  when  Arne  came  into  the  room  to  din- 
ner, he  went  over  to  the  window.  Outdoors  it  was  dull 
and  foggy,  but  indoors,  warm  and  comfortal)lc  ;  and  on 
tlie  window-pane  was  written  with  a  finger,  "  Arnc,  Arne, 
Arne,"  and  nothing  but  "  Arne,"  over  and  over  again: 
it  was  at  that  windcnv,  Eli  stood  the  evening  l^eforc. 

*  As  on  page  68. 


ELl's   SICKNESS.  95 


XL 

ELFS   SICKNESS. 

NEXT  day,  Arnc  came  into  the  room  and  said  he  had 
heard  in  the  yard  tliat  the  clergyman's  daughter, 
Mathilde.  had  just  gone  to  the  town  ;  as  she  thouglit,  for 
a  tew  davs,  but  as  her  parents  intended,  for  a  year  or  two. 
EH  had  heard  notliing  of  this  before,  and  now  she  fell 
down  fainting.  Arne  had  never  seen  any  one  faint,  and 
he  was  mucli  frightened.  He  ran  for  the  maids  ;  thev 
ran  for  the  parents,  wlio  came  hurrying  in  ;  and  there 
was  a  disturbance  all  over  the  liouse,  and  the  dog  barked 
on  the  barn  steps.  Soon  after,  when  Arne  came  in 
again,  the  mother  was  kneeling  at  the  bedside,  wliile  the 
father  supported  Eli's  drooping  head.  Tlie  maids  were 
running  about  —  one  for  water,  another  for  liartsliorn 
which  was  in  the  cupboard,  while  a  third  unfa.stcncil  her 
jacket. 

"  God  help  vou  !  "  the  mother  said  ;  "  I  see  it  \vas 
wrong  in  us  not  to  tell  her;  it  was  vui.  Ixiard.  who 
would  have  it  so  ;  (iod  help  vou  !  "  Uaard  did  not  an- 
swer. "I  wished  to  tell  her,  indeed  ;  but  nothing's  to  be 
as  I  wish  ;  (jod  help  vou  !  Vou're  ahvavs  so  li.irsli  wit!i 
her,  Baard  ;  \'ou  don't  understand  her;  \()U  don't  know 
what  it  is  to  love  anvbo<l\-,  nou  don't."  ]3aard  did  not 
answer.  '•  J~^he  isn't  like  some  others  who  can  bear  sor- 
row ;  it  cjuite  puts  her  tlow  n.  poor  slight  thing,  as  slic  i>. 
Wake  up.  mv  child,  and  \se'll  br  Ivind  to  you!  wake  up, 
Eli,  my  o\\n  darling,  ami  dijn'l  grieve  us  so." 


96  ARNE. 

"You  always  either  talk  too  much  or  too  little,"  Baard 
said,  at  last,  looking  over  to  Arne,  as  though  he  did  not 
wish  him  to  hear  such  things,  but  to  leave  the  room.  As, 
however,  the  maid-servants  stayed,  Arne  thought  he,  too, 
miglit  stay  ;  but  he  went  over  to  the  window.  Soon  the 
sick  girl  revived  so  far  as  to  be  able  to  look  round  and 
recognize  those  about  her ;  but  then  also  memory  re- 
turned, and  she  called  wildly  for  Mathilde,  went  into 
hysterics,  and  sobbed  till  it  was  painful  to  be  in  the  room. 
The  mother  tried  to  soothe  her,  and  the  father  sat  down 
where  she  could  see  him ;  but  she  pushed  them  both 
from  her. 

"  Go  away !  "  she  cried ;  "  I  don't  like  you ;  go 
away !  " 

"  Oh,  Eli,  how  can  you  say  you  don't  like  your  own 
parents  ?  "  exclaimed  the  mother. 

"  Xo  !  you're  imkind  to  me,  and  you  take  away  every 
pleasure  from  me  !  " 

"  Eli,  Eli  !  don't  say  such  hard  things,"  said  the  mother, 
imploringly. 

"  Yes,  mother,"  she  exclaimed  ;  "  now  I  miist  say  it ! 
Yes,  mother ;  you  wish  to  marry  me  to  that  bad  man  ; 
and  I  won't  have  him  !  You  sliut  me  up  here,  where 
I'm  never  happy  save  when  I'm  going  out !  And  you 
take  away  Mathilde  from  mc  ;  the  only  one  in  the  world 
I  love  and  long  for !  Oh,  God,  what  will  become  of  me, 
now  Mathilde  is  gone  !  " 

'•  But  you  haven't  been  much  witli  her  lately,"  Baard 
said. 

"  What  (lid  that  matter,  so  long  as  I  could  look  over  to 
her  from  lliat  window,"  the  poor  girl  answered,  weeping 
in  a  childlike  way  that  Arne  had  never  before  seen  in 
any  one. 

"  Why,  you  couldn't  see  her  there,"  said  Baard. 


ELI  S   SICKNESS.  97 

"  Still,  I  saw  the  house,"  she  answered ;  and  the 
mother  added  passionately,  "  You  don't  understand  such 
tilings,  you  don't."     Then  Baard  said  nothing  more. 

"  Now,  I  can  never  again  go  to  the  window,"  said  Eli. 
"  When  I  rose  in  die  morning,  I  went  there  ;  in  the  even- 
ing I  sat  there  in  the  moonlight :  I  went  there  when  I 
could  go  to  no  one  else.  Mathilde !  Mathilda?"  She 
writhed  in  the  bed,  and  went  again  into  hysterics.  Baard 
sat  down  on  a  stool  a  little  way  from  the  bed,  and  con- 
tinued looking  at  her. 

But  Eli  did  not  recover  so  soon  as  they  expected. 
Towards  evening  they  ■  saw  she  would  have  a  serious 
illness,  which  had  probably  been  coming  upon  her  for 
some  time  ;  and  Arne  was  called  to  assist  in  carrying  her 
up-stairs  to  her  room.  She  lay  quiet  and  unconscious, 
looking  very  pale.  The  mother  sat  by  the  side  of  her 
bed,  the  father  stood  at  the  foot,  looking  at  her :  after- 
wards he  went  to  his  work.  wSo  did  Arne ;  but  that 
night  before  he  went  to  sleep,  he  prayed  for  her ;  prayed 
that  she  who  was  so  young  and  fair  might  be  happy  in 
this  world,  and  that  no  one  might  bar  away  joy  from 
her. 

The  next  day  when  Arne  came  in,  he  found  the  father 
and  motlier  sitting  talking  together :  the  mother  had  been 
weeping.  Arne  asked  how  Eli  was ;  both  expected  the 
other  to  give  an  answer,  and  so  for  some  time  none  was 
given,  but  at  last  the  father  said,  "  Well,  she's  very  bad 
to -t  lay." 

Afterwards  Arne  heard  tliat  she  had  been  raving  all 
night,  or,  as  the  fatlier  said,  "  talking  foolery."  She  hatl 
a  violent  fever,  knew  no  one.  and  would  not  eat,  and 
the  parents  were  deliberating  whetlier  they  shoultl  send 
for  a  doctor.  When  afterwards  they  both  went  to  the 
sick-room,   leaving  Arne   behind,   he   felt  as   if  life  and 

7 


98  ARNE. 

death  were  struggling  together  up  there,  but  he  was  kept 
outside. 

In  a  few  days,  however,  Eli  became  a  little  better. 
But  once  when  the  father  was  tending  her,  she  took  it 
into  her  head  to  have  Narrifas,  the  bird  which  Mathilde 
had  given  her,  set  beside  the  bed.  Then  Baard  told  her 
that  —  as  was  really  the  case  —  in  the  confusion  the  bird 
had  been  forgotten,  and  was  starved.  The  mother  was 
just  coming  in  as  Baard  was  saying  this,  and  while  yet 
standing  in  the  doorway,  she  cried  out,  "  Oh,  dear  me, 
what  a  monster  you  are,  Baard,  to  tell  it  to  that  poor 
little  thing !  See,  she's  fainting  again ;  God  forgive 
you  !  "  When  Eli  revived  she  again  asked  for  the  bird  ; 
said  its  death  was  a  bad  omen  for  Mathilde  ;  and  wished 
to  go  to  her  :  then  she  fainted  again.  Baard  stood  look- 
ing on  till  she  grew  so  much  worse  that  he  wanted  to 
help,  too,  in  tending  her ;  but  the  mother  pushed  him 
away,  and  said  she  would  do  all  herself.  Then  Baard 
gave  a  long  sad  look  at  both  of  them,  put  his  cap  straight 
with  both  hands,  turned  aside  and  went  out. 

Soon  after,  the  Clergyman  and  his  wife  came ;  for  the 
fever  heightened,  and  grew  so  violent  that  they  did  not 
know  whether  it  would  turn  to  life  or  death.  The 
Clergyman  as  well  as  his  wife  spoke  to  Baard  about  Eli, 
and  hinted  that  he  was  too  harsh  with  her ;  but  when 
they  heard  what  he  had  told  her  about  the  bird,  the 
Clergyman  plainly  told  him  it  was  very  rough,  and  said 
he  would  have  her  taken  to  his  own  house  as  soon  as  she 
was  well  enough  to  be  moved.  The  Clergyman's  wife 
would  scarcely  look  at  Baard  ;  she  wept,  and  went  to  sit 
with  the  sick  one ;  then  sent  for  the  doctor,  and  came 
several  times  a  day  to  carry  out  his  directions.  Baard 
went  wandering  restlessly  about  from  one  place  to  an- 
other in  the  yard,  going  oftcnest  to  those  places  where 


ELI  S   SICKNESS.  99 

he  could  be  alone.  There  he  would  stand  still  by  the 
hour  together ;  then,  put  his  cap  straight  and  work  again 
a  little. 

The  mother  did  not  speak  to  him,  and  they  scarcely 
looked  at  each  other.  He  used  to  go  and  see  Eli  several 
times  in  the  day ;  he  took  off  his  shoes  before  he  went 
up-stairs,  left  his  cap  outside,  and  opened  the  door 
cautiously.  When  he  came  in,  Birgit  would  turn  her 
head,  but  take  no  notice  of  him,  and  then  sit  just  as 
before,  stooping  forwards,  with  her  head  on  her  hands, 
looking  at  Eli,  who  lay  still  and  pale,  unconscious  of  all 
that  was  passing  around  her.  Baard  would  stand  awhile 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed  and  look  at  them  both,  but  say 
nothing :  once  when  Eli  moved  as  though  she  were 
waking,  he  stole  away  directly  as  quietly  as  he  had 
come. 

Arne  often  thought  words  had  been  exchanged  between 
man  and  wife  and  parents  and  child  which  had  been  long 
gathering,  and  would  be  long  remembered.  He  longed 
to  go  away,  though  he  wished  to  know  before  he  went 
what  would  be  the  end  of  Eli's  illness ;  but  then  he 
thought  he  might  always  hear  about  her  even  after  he 
had  left;  and  so  he  went  to  Baard  telling  him  he  wished 
to  go  home :  the  work  which  he  came  to  do  was  com- 
pleted. Baard  was  sitting  outdoors  on  a  chopping-l^lock, 
scratching  in  tlie  snow  with  a  stick  :  Arne  recognized 
the  stick  :  it  was  the  one  which  liad  fiistened  the  weather- 
vane. 

"Well,  perhaps  it  isn't  worth  your  while  to  stay  here 
now  ;  yet  I  feel  as  if  I  don't  like  you  to  go  away,  .either," 
said  Baard,  without  looking  up.  He  said  no  more ; 
neither  did  Arne ;  but  after  a  while  he  walked  away  to 
do  some  work,  taking  for  granted  that  he  was  to  remain 
at  Boen. 


lOO  ARNE. 

Some  time  after,  when  he  was  called  to  dinner,  he 
saw  Baard  still  sitting  on  the  block.  He  went  over  to 
him,  and  asked  how  Eli  was. 

"  I  think  she's  very  bad  to-day,"  Baard  said. 

"  I  see  the  mother's  weeping." 

Arne  felt  as  if  somebody  asked  him  to  sit  down,  and 
he  seated  himself  opposite  Baard  on  the  end  of  a  felled 

tree. 

f 

"  I've  often  thought  of  your  father  lately,"  Baard  said 
so  unexpectedly  that  Arne  did  not  know  how  to  answer. 

"You  know,  I  suppose,  what  was  between  us.'"' 

"  Yes,  I  know." 

"  Well,  you  know,  as  may  be  expected,  only  one  half 
of  the  story,  and  think  I'm  greatly  to  blame." 

"  You  have,  I  dare  say,  settled  that  affair  with  your 
God,  as  surely  as  my  father  has  done  so,"  Arne  said, 
after  a  pause. 

"  Well,  some  people  might  think  so,"  Baard  answered. 
"  When  I  found  this  stick,  I  felt  it  was  so  sbange  that 
you  should  come  here  and  unloose  the  weather-vane.  As 
well  now  as  later,  I  thought."  He  had  taken  off  his  cap, 
and  sat  silently  looking  at  it. 

"  I  was  about  fourteen  years  old  when  I  became  ac- 
quainted with  your  father,  and  he  was  of  the  same  age. 
He  was  very  wild,  and  he  couldn't  bear  any  one  to  be 
above  him  in  anything.  So  he  always  had  a  grudge 
against  me  because  I  stood  first,  and  he,  second,  when 
we  were  confirmed.  He  often  oflered  to  fight  me,  but 
we  never  came  to  it;  most  likely  because  neither  of  us 
felt  sury  who  would  beat.  And  a  strange  thing  it  is, 
that  although  he  fought  every  day,  no  accident  came 
from  it;  while  the  first  time  I  did,  it  turned  out  as  badly 
as  could  be  ;  but,  it's  true,  I  had  been  wanting  to  fight 
long  enough. 


ELI  S    SICKNESS.  lOI 

*'  Nils  fluttered  about  all  the  girls,  and  they,  about  him. 
There  was  only  one  I  would  have,  and  her  he  took  away 
from  me  at  every  dance,  at  every  wedding,  and  at  every 
party  ;  it  was  she  who  is  now  my  wife.  .  .  .  Often,  as  I 
sat  there,  I  felt  a  great  mind  to  try  my  strength  upon  him 
for  this  thing ;  but  I  w^as  afraid  I  should  lose,  and  I  knew 
if  I  did,  I  should  lose  her,  too.  Then,  when  everybody 
had  gone,  I  would  lift  the  weights  he  had  lifted,  and  kick 
the  beam  he  had  kicked  ;  but  the  next  time  he  took  the 
girl  from  me,  I  was  afraid  to  meddle  witli  him,  although 
once,  when  he  was  flirting  with  her  just  in  my  face,  I 
went  up  to  a  tall  fellow  wdio  stood  by  and  threw  him 
against  the  beam,  as  if  in  fun.  And  Nils  grew  pale,  too, 
when  he  saw  it. 

"  Even  if  he  had  been  kind  to  her ;  but  he  was  false  to 
her  again  and  again.  I  almost  believe,  too,  she  loved 
him  all  the  more  every  time.  Then  the  last  thing  hap- 
pened. I  thought  now  it  must  either  break  or  bear. 
The  Lord,  too,  woidd  not  have  him  going  about  any 
longer ;  and  so  he  fell  a  little  more  heavily  than  I  meant 
him  to  do.     I  never  saw  him  afterwards," 

They  sat  silent  for  a  while  ;   then  Baard  went  on  : 

"  I  once  more  made  my  oiler.  She  said  neither  yes 
nor  no  ;  but  I  thought  she  woulil  like  me  better  after- 
wards. So  we  were  married.  The  wedding  was  kept 
down  in  the  valley,  at  the  house  of  one  of  her  aunts, 
whose  property  she  inheritetl.  We  hatl  plenty  when 
we  started,  and  it  has  now  increased.  Our  estates  lay 
side  by  side,  and  when  we  married  they  were  thrown 
into  one,  as  I  always,  from  a  boy,  thought  they  miglit  be. 
But  many  other  things  ditln't  turn  out  as  I  expected." 
He  was  silent  for  several  minutes  ;  and  Arne  thought  he 
wept ;  but  he  did  not, 

"  In  the  beginning  of  our  married  life,  she  was  quiet 


I02  ARNE. 

and  very  sad.  I  had  noticing  to  say  to  comfort  her,  and 
so  I  was  silent.  Afterwards,  she  began  sometimes  to 
take  to  these  fidgeting  ways  which  you  have,  I  dare  say, 
noticed  in  her ;  yet  it  was  a  change,  and  so  I  said  noth- 
ing then,  either.  But  one  really  happy  day,  I  haven't 
known  ever  since  I  was  married,  and  that's  now  twenty 
years.  .  .  ." 

He  broke  the  stick  in  two  pieces  ;  and  then  sat  for  a 
while  looking  at  them. 

"  When  Eli  grew  bigger,  I  thought  she  would  be 
happier  among  strangers  than  at  home.  It  was  seldom 
I  wished  to  carry  out  my  own  will  in  anything,  and 
whenever  I  did,  it  generally  turned  out  badly ;  so  it  was 
in  this  case.  The  mother  longed  after  her  child,  though 
only  the  lake  lay  between  them  ;  and  afterwards  I  saw, 
too,  that  Eli's  training  at  the  parsonage  was  in  some  ways 
not  the  right  thing  for  her ;  but  then  it  was  too  late  :  now 
I  think  she  likes  neither  father  nor  mother." 

He  had  taken  off  his  cap  again  ;  and  now  his  long  hair 
hung  down  over  his  eyes ;  he  stroked  it  back  with  both 
hands,  and  put  on  his  cap  as  if  he  were  going  away  ;  but 
when,  as  he  was  about  to  rise,  he  turned  towards  the 
house,  he  checked  himself  and  added,  while  looking  up 
at  the  bed-room  window, 

"  I  thought  it  better  that  she  and  Mathilde  shouldn't 
see  each  other  to  say  good-bye  :  that,  too,  was  wrong.  I 
told  her  the  wee  bird  was  dead  ;  for  it  was  my  fault,  and 
so  I  tliought  it  better  to  confess ;  but  that  again  was 
wrong.  And  so  it  is  with  everything :  I've  always  meant 
to  do  for  the  best,  but  it  has  always  turned  out  for  the 
worst ;  and  now  things  have  come  to  such  a  pass  that 
both  wife  and  daughter  speak  ill  of  me,  and  I'm  going 
here  lonely." 

A  servant-girl  called  out  to  them  that  the  dinner  was 


ELl's   SICKNESS.  IO3 

becoming  cold.  Baard  rose.  "  I  hear  the  horses  neigh- 
ing ;  I  think  somebody  has  forgotten  them,"  he  said,  and 
went  away  to  the  stable  to  give  them  some  hay. 

Arne  rose,  too  ;  he  felt  as  if  he  hardly  knew  whether 
Baard  had  been  speaking  or  not. 


I04  ARNE. 


XII. 

A    GLIMPSE   OF  SPRING. 

IT' LI  felt  very  weak  after  the  illness.  The  mother 
-*—•  watched  by  her  night  and  day,  and  never  came 
down-stairs  ;  the  father  came  up  as  usual,  with  his  boots 
off,  and  leaving  his  cap  outside  the  door.  Arne  still 
remained  at  the  house.  He  and  the  father  used  to  sit 
together  in  the  evening ;  and  Arne  began  to  like  him 
much,  for  Baard  wa^  a  well-informed,  deep-thinking 
man,  though  he  seemed  afraid  of  saying  what  he  knew. 
In  his  own  way,  he,  too,  enjoyed  Arne's  company,  for 
Arne  helped  his  thoughts  and  told  him  of  things  which 
were  new  to  him. 

Eli  soon  began  to  sit  up  part  of  the  day,  and  as  she 
recovered,  she  often  took  little  fancies  into  her  head. 
Thus,  one  evening  when  Arne  was  sitting  in  the  room 
below,  singing  songs  in  a  clear,  loud  voice,  the  mother 
came  down  with  a  message  from  Eli,  asking  him  if  he 
would  go  up -stairs  and  sing  to  her,  that  she  might  also 
hear  the  words.  It  seemed  as  if  he  had  been  singing  to 
Eli  all  the  time,  for  when  the  mother  spoke  he  turned 
red,  and  rose  as  if  he  would  deny  having  done  so,  though 
no  one  charged  him  with  it.  He  soon  collected  himself, 
however,  and  replied  evasively,  that  he  could  sing  so  very 
little.  The  mother  said  it  did  not  seem  so  when  he  was 
alone. 

Arne  yielded  and  went.  He  had  not  seen  Eli  since  the 
day  he  helped  to    carry  her  up-stairs ;    he  thought  she 


A   GLIMPSE    OF   SPRING.  I05 

must  be  much  altered,  and  he  felt  half  afraid  to  see  her. 
But  when  he  gently  opened  the  door  and  went  in,  he 
found  the  room  quite  dark,  and  he  could  see  no  one.  He 
stojjped  at  the  door-way. 

"Who  is  it?"  Eli  asked  in  a  clear,  low  voice. 

"  It's  Arne  Kampen,"  he  said  in  a  gentle,  guarded  tone, 
so  that  his  words  might  fall  softly. 

"  It  was  very  kind  of  you  to  come." 

"  How  are  you,  Eli  ? " 

"Thanks,  I'm  much  better  now." 

"  Won't  you  sit  down,  Arne  ?  "  she  added  after  a  while, 
and  Arne  felt  his  way  to  a  chair  at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 
"  It  did  me  good  to  hear  you  singing ;  won't  you  sing  a 
little  to  me  up  here  ?  " 

"  If  I  only  knew  anything  you  would  like." 

She  was  silent  a  while  :  then  she  said,  "  Sing  a  hymn." 
And  he  sang  one  :  it  was  the  confirmation  hymn.  When 
he  had  finished  he  heard  her  weeping,  and  so  he  was 
afraid  to  sing  again  ;  but  in  a  little  while  she  said,  "  Sing 
one  more."  And  he  sang  another  :  it  was  the  one  which 
is  generally  sung  while  the  catechumens  are  standing  in 
the  aisle. 

"  How  many  things  I've  thought  over  while  I've  been 
lying  here,"  Eli  said.  He  did  not  know  what  to  answer ; 
and  he  heard  her  weeping  again  in  the  dark.  A  clock 
that  was  ticking  on  the  wall  warned  for  striking,  and 
then  struck.  Eli  l>reathed  deeply  several  times,  as  if  she 
would  lighten  her  breast,  and  then  she  said.  •'  One  knows 
so  little  ;  I  knew  neither  father  nor  mother.  I  haven't 
been  kind  to  them  ;  and  now  it  seems  so  sail  to  hear  that 
hymn." 

When  we  talk  in  the  darkness,  we  speak  more  faith- 
fully than  when  we  see  each  other's  face  ;  and  we  also 
say  more. 


I06  ARNE. 

"  It  does  one  good  to  hear  you  talk  so,"  Arne  replied, 
just  remembering  what  she  had  said  when  she  was  taken 
ill. 

She  understood  what  he  meant.  "  If  now  this  had  not 
happened  to  me,"  she  went  on,  "  God  only  knows  how 
long  I  might  have  gone  before  I  found  mother." 

*'  She  has  talked  matters  over  with  you  lately,  then .? " 

"  Yes,  every  day  ;  she  has  done  hardly  anything  else." 

"  Then,  I'm  sure  you've  heard  many  things." 

"  You  may  well  say  so." 

"  I  think  she  spoke  of  my  father  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  She  remembers  him  still  ?  " 

"  She  remembers  him." 

"  He  wasn't  kind  to  her." 

"  Poor  mother  !  " 

*'  Yet  he  was  worst  to  himself." 

They  were  silent ;  and  Arne  had  thoughts  which  he 
could  not  utter.  Eli  was  the  first  to  link  their  words 
again. 

"You  are  said  to  be  like  your  father." 

"  People  say  so,"  he  replied  evasively. 

She  did  not  notice  the  tone  of  his  voice,  and  so,  after  a 
while  she  returned  to  the  subject.  "  Could  he,  too,  make 
songs  ? " 

«  No." 

"  Sing  a  song  to  me  .  .  .  one  that  you've  made  your- 
self." 

"  I  have  none,"  he  said ;  for  it  was  not  his  custom  to 
confess  he  had  himself  composed  the  songs  he  sang. 

"  I'm  sure  you  have  ;  and  I'm  sure,  too,  you'll  sing  one 
of  them  when  I  ask  you." 

What  he  had  never  done  for  any  one  else,  he  now  did 
for  her,  as  he  sang  the  following  song,  — 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   SPRING.  IO7 

"  The  Tree's  early  leaf-buds  were  bursting  their  brown  : 
'Shall  I  take  them  away?'  said  the  Frost,  sweeping  down. 
*  No  ;  leave  them  alone 
Till  the  blossoms  have  grown,' 
Prayed  the  tree,  while  he  trembled  from  rootlet  to  crown. 

"The  Tree  bore  his  blossoms,  and  all  the  birds  sung: 
'Shall  I  take  them  away?'  said  the  Wind,  as  he  swung. 
'  No ;  leave  them  alone 
Till  the  berries  have  grown,' 
Said  the  Tree,  while  his  lea%ts  quivering  hung. 

"The  Tree  bore  his  fruit  in  the  Midsummer  glow: 
Said  the  girl,  'May  I  gather  thy  berries  or  no?' 
'  Yes  ;  all  thou  canst  see ; 
Take  them ;  all  are  for  thee,' 
Said  the  Tree,  while  he  bent  down  his  laden  boughs  low." 

That  song  nearly  took  her  breath  away.  He,  too, 
remained  silent  after  it,  as  though  he  had  sung  more 
than  he  could  say. 

Darkness  has  a  strong  influence  over  those  who  are 
sitting  in  it  and  dare  not  speak :  they  are  never  so  near 
each  other  as  then.  If  she  only  turned  on  the  pillow,  or 
moved  her  hand  on  the  blanket,  or  breathed  a  little  more 
heavily,  he  heard  it. 

"  Arne,  couldn't  you  teach  me  to  make  songs.?" 

"  Did  you  never  try  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  have,  these  last  few  days  ;  but  I  can't  manage 
it." 

"What,  then,  did  you  wish  to  have  in  them.'*" 

"  Sometliing  about  my  mother,  who  loved  your  father 
so  dearly." 

"  That's  a  sad  subject." 

"Yes,  indeed  it  is ;  and  I  have  wept  over  it." 

"  You  shouldn't  search  for  subjects ;  they  come  of 
themselves." 


I08  ARNE. 

"  How  do  they  come  ?  " 

"Just  as  other  dear  things  come  —  unexpectedly." 

They  were  both  silent.  "  I  wonder,  Arne,  you're  long- 
ing to  go  away ;  you  who  have  such  a  world  of  beauty 
within  yourself." 

"  Do  you  know  I  am  longing?  " 

"  She  did  not  answer,  but  lay  still  a  few  moments  as  if 
in  thought. 

"  Arne,  you  mustn't  go  away,"  she  said  ;  and  the  words 
came  warm  to  his  heart. 

"  Well,  sometimes  I  have  less  mind  to  go." 

"  Your  mother  must  love  you  much,  I'm  sure.  I  must 
see  your  mother." 

"  Go  over  to  Kampen,  when  you're  well  again." 

And  all  at  once,  he  fancied  her  sitting  in  the  bright 
room  at  Kampen,  looking  out  on  the  mountains ;  his 
chest  began  to  heave,  and  the  blood  rushed  to  his  face. 

"  It's  warm  in  here,"  he  said,  rising. 

She  heard  him  rise.  "Are  you  going,  Arne .'"'  He 
sat  down  again. 

"  You  must  come  over  to  see  us  oftener  ;  mother's  so 
fond  of  you." 

"  I  should  like  to  come  myself,  too ;  .  .  .  but  still  I 
must  have  some  errand." 

Eli  lay  silent  for  a  while,  as  if  she  was  turning  over 
something  in  her  mind.  "  I  believe,"  she  said,  "  mother 
has  something  to  ask  you  about."  .  .  . 

They  both  felt  the  room  was  becoming  very  hot ;  he 
wiped  liis  brow,  and  lie  heard  her  rise  in  the  bed.  No 
sound  could  be  heard  either  in  the  room  or  down-stairs, 
save  the  ticking  of  the  clock  on  the  wall.  There  was  no 
moon,  and  the  darkness  was  deep ;  when  he  looked 
through  the  green  window,  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  was 
looking  into  a  wood  ;   when  he  looked  towards  Eli   he 


A   GLIMPSE    OF   SPRING.  IO9 

could  see  nothing,  but  his  thoughts  went  over  to  her,  and 
then  his  heart  throbbed  till  he  could  himself  hear  its  beat- 
ing. Before  his  eyes  flickered  bright  sparks  ;  in  his  ears 
came  a  rushing  sound ;  still  faster  throbbed  his  heart : 
he  felt  he  must  rise  or  say  something.  But  then  she 
exclaimed, 

"  How  I  wish  it  were  summer  !  " 

"That  it  were  summer?"  And  he  heard  again  the 
sound  of  the  cattle-bells,  the  horn  from  the  mountains, 
and  the  singing  from  the  valleys ;  and  saw  the  fresh 
green  foliage,  the  Swart-water  glittering  in  the  sunbeams, 
the  houses  rocking  in  it,  and  Eli  coming  out  and  sitting 
on  the  shore,  just  as  she  did  that  evening.  "  If  it  were 
summer,"  she  said,  "  and  I  were  sitting  on  the  hill,  I 
think  I  could  sing  a  song/' 

He  smiled  gladly,  and  asked,  "  What  would  it  be 
about  ? " 

"  About  something  bright ;  about  —  well,  I  hardly 
know  what  myself."  .  .  . 

"  Tell  me,  Eli !  "  He  rose  in  glad  excitement ;  but,  on 
second  thoughts,  sat  down  again. 

"  No  ;  not  for  all  the  world  !  "  she  said,  laughing. 

"  I  sang  to  you  when  you  asked  me." 

"  Yes,  I  know  you  did  ;  but  I  can't  tell  you  tliis  ;  no  ! 
no!" 

"  Eli,  do  you  think  I  would  laugh  at  the  little  verse  you 
have  made  ? " 

"  No,  I  don't  think  you  woidd,  Arne  ;  but  it  isn't  any- 
thing I've  made  myself." 

"  Oh,  it's  by  somebody  else  then?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Then,  you  can  surely  sav  it  to  me." 

"  No,  no,  I  can't ;  don't  ask  me  again,  Arne  !  " 

The  last  words  were  almost  inaudible  ;  it  seemed  as  if 
she  had  hidden  her  head  under  the  bedclothes. 


1  lO  ARNE. 

.  "  Eli,  now  you're  not  kind  to  me  as  I  was  to  you,"  he 
said,  rising. 

"  But,  Arne,  there's  a  difference  .  .  .  you  don't  under- 
stand me  .  .  .  but  it  was  ...  I  don't  know  .  .  .  another 
time  .  .  .  don't  be  offended  with  me,  Arne !  don't  go 
away  from  me  ! "     She  began  to  weep. 

"  Eli,  whafs  the  matter?"  It  came  over  him  like  sun- 
shine. "  Are  you  ill  ? "  Though  he  asked,  he  did  not 
believe  she  was.  She  still  wept ;  he  felt  he  must  draw 
nearer  or  go  quite  away.     "  Eli."     He  listened.     "  Eli." 

"  Yes." 

She  checked  her  weeping.  But  he  did  not  know  what 
to  say  more,  and  was  silent. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  whispered,  half  turning 
towards  him. 

"  It's  something  —  " 

His  voice  trembled,  and  he  stopped. 

"What  is  it?" 

"  You  mustn't  refuse  ...  I  would  ask  you  .  .  ." 

"  Is  it  the  song  ?  " 

"  No  .  .  .  Eli,  I  wish  so  much  .  .  ."  He  heard  her 
breathing  fast  and  deeply  ..."  I  wish  so  much  .  .  . 
to  hold  one  of  your  hands," 

She  did  not  answer  ;  he  listened  intently  —  drew  nearer, 
and  clasped  a  warm  little  hand  which  lay  on  the  coverlet. 

Then  steps  were  heard  coming  up-stairs ;  they  came 
nearer  and  nearer ;  the  door  was  opened ;  and  Arne 
unclasped  his  hand.  It  was  the  mother,  who  came  in 
with  a  light.  "  I  think  you're  sitting  too  long  in  the 
dark,"  she  said,  putting  the  candlestick  on  the  table. 
But  neither  Eli  nor  Arne  could  bear  the  light ;  she  turned 
her  face  to  the  pillow,  and  he  shaded  his  eyes  with  his 
hand.  "  Well,  it  pains  a  litde  at  first,  but  it  soon  passes 
off,"  said  the  mother. 


A    GLIMPSE   OF   SPRING.  Ill 

Arne  looked  on  the  floor  for  something  which  he  had 
not  dropped,  and  then  went  down-stairs. 

The  next  day,  he  heard  that  EH  intended  to  come  down 
in  the  afternoon.  He  put  his  tools  together,  and  said 
good-bye.     When  she  came  down  he  had  gone. 


112  ARNE. 

XIII. 
MAR  GIT  CONSULTS   THE   CLERGYMAN. 

UP  between  the  mountains,  the  spring  comes  late. 
The  post,  who  in  winter  passes  along  the  high- 
road thrice  a  week,  in  April  passes  only  once  ;  and  tiie 
Highlanders  know  then  that  outside,  the  snow  is  shovelled 
away,  the  ice  broken,  the  steamers  are  running,  and  the 
plough  is  struck  into  the  earth.  Here,  the  snow  still  lies 
six  feet  deep  ;  the  cattle  low  in  their  stalls ;  the  birds 
arrive,  but  feel  cold  and  hide  themselves.  Occasionally 
some  traveller  arrives,  saying  he  has  left  his  carriage 
down  in  the  valley ;  he  brings  flowers,  which  he  ex- 
amines ;  he  picked  them  by  the  wayside.  The  people 
watch  the  advance  of  the  season,  talk  over  their  matters, 
and  look  up  at  the  sun  and  round  about,  to  see  how  much 
he  is  able  to  do  each  day.  They  scatter  ashes  on  the 
snow,  and  think  of  those  who  are  now  picking  flowers. 

It  was  at  this  time  of  year,  old  Margit  Kampen  went 
one  day  to  the  j^arsonage,  and  asked  whether  she  might 
speak  to  "father."  She  was  invited  into  the  study,  where 
the  clergynian,  —  a  slender,  fair-haired,  gentle-looking 
man,  with  large  eyes  and  spectacles,  —  received  her  kind- 
ly, recognized  her,  and  asked  her  to  sit  down. 

"  Is  tliere  something  the  matter  with  Arne  again. ^  "  he 
inquired,  as  if  Arne  had  often  been  a  subject  of  conver- 
sation between  them. 

"  Oh,  dear,  yes !  I  haven't  anything  wrong  to  say 
about  him  ;  but  yet  it's  so  sad,"  said  Margit,  looking 
deeply  grieved. 

"  Has  that  longing  come  back  again  !  " 


MARGIT    CONSULTS    TIIK    CLlCIKiVMAX.  II3 

"Worse  than  ever.  I  can  hardly  think  he'll  even  stay 
with  me  till  spring  conies  up  here." 

'■  But  he  has  promised  never  to  go  away  from  you." 

''  That's  true  ;  but,  dear  me  !  he  must  now  be  his  own 
master  ;  and  if  liis  mind's  set  upon  going  away,  go,  he 
must.      But  whatever  will  become  of  me  then?" 

''  Well,  after  all,  I  don't  think  he  will  leave  you." 

'"Well,  perhaps  not;  l)ut  still,  if  he  isn't  happy  at 
home?  am  I  then  to  have  it  upon  mv  conscience  tliat  1 
stand  in  his  way  ?  Sometimes  I  feel  as  if  I  ought  even  to 
ask  him  to  leave." 

'••How  do  you  know  he  is  longing  now,  more  than 
ever? " 

''Oh.  —  bv  many  things.  Since  the  middle  of  the 
winter,  he  hasn't  worked  out  in  the  parish  a  single 
clav  ;  but  he  has  been  to  the  town  three  times,  and  has 
staged  a  long  while  each  time.  He  scarcelv  ever  talks 
now  while  he  is  at  work,  but  he  often  used  to  do.  He'll 
sit  for  hours  alone  at  tlie  little  up-stairs  window,  looking 
towards  the  ravine,  antl  awav  o^■er  t!ie  moinitains  :  lie'll 
sit  tliere  all  Sunchu'  afternoon,  and  often  when  it's  moon- 
liglit  he  sits  there  till  late  in  the  night." 

'•  Does  he  ne\er  read  to  nou  ?  "" 

••  Yes.  of  course,  he  reads  and  sings  to  me  everv  vSun- 
dav  ;  but  he  seems  rather  in  a  hurr\',  .-nve  now  and  then 
wlieu  he  gives  almost  too  nuich  of  the  thing." 

'•Does  he  ne\'er  talk  civer  matters  with  \-ou  then?" 

'•Well,  ves  :  but  it's  s(i  seldnni  that  1  sit  :'n(l  weep 
alone  between  whiles.  Then  1  dare  sa\-  he  notices  it,  tor 
he  begins  talking,  l)ut  it's  unlv  about  triiles  :  i;ever  about 
anNthing  serious." 

Tlie  Clergyman  walked  up  and  down  the  room  ;  tiien 
he  stopped  and  asked.  ••  But  whv.  then,  don't  you  talk  to 
him  al)out  his  matters?" 

8 


For  a  long  while  she  gave  no  answer ;  she  sighed 
several  times,  looked  downwards  and  sideways,  doubled 
up  her  handkerchief,  and  at  last  said,  '•  I've  come  here  to 
speak  to  you,  father,  about  something  that's  a  great 
burden  on  mv  mind." 

''  Speak  freely  ;  it  will  relieve  you." 

'•Yes,  I  know  it  will;  for  I've  borne  it  alone  now 
these  many  vears.  and  it  grows  heavier  each  year." 

"  Well,  what  is   it.   my  good  Margit.'" 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  she  said,  "  I've  greatly 
siiuied  against  my  son." 

She  began  weeping.  The  Clergyman  came  close  to 
her  ;  '•  Confess  it."  he  said  ;  "  and  we  will  pray  together 
that  it  mav  be  forgiven." 

Margit  sobbed  and  wiped  her  eves,  but  began  weeping 
again  when  she  tried  to  speak.  The  Clergvman  tried  to 
comf)rt  her.  saving  slie  could  not  lune  done  anvthing 
very  sinful,  she  doubtless  was  too  hard  upon  herself,  and 
so  on.  But  Margit  continued  weeping,  and  could  not 
begin  her  confession  till  the  Clergvman  seated  liimself 
by  her  side,  and  spoke  still  more  encouraginglv  to  her. 
Then  after  a  while  she  began.  '■  The  bov  was  ill-used 
when  a  child  :  and  so  he  got  this  mind  for  travelling. 
Then  he  met  with  Christian  —  he  who  has  grown  so  rich 
o\lt  tliere  wheix'  thev  dig  gold.  Christian  ga^•e  him  so 
man\'  books  that  he  got  ([uite  a  scholar:  thev  used  to 
sit  togctlier  in  the  long  evenings;  and  when  Christian 
went  awav  Arne  wanted  to  go  after  liim.  I^ut  just  at 
that  time,  the  father  died,  and  the  lad  piomisetl  never  to 
leave  me.  I]ut  I  was  like  a  hen  that's  got  a  duck's  c^^g 
to  brood:  when  m\'  duckling  had  imrst  his  shell,  he 
would  go  out  on  tile  wide  water,  and  I  was  left  on  the 
bank,  calling  after  him.  If  lie  didn't  go  away  himself, 
yet  his  heart  went  aw;iv  in  his  songs,  and  everv  morning 
I  expected  to  tind  his  bed  empty. 


MARGIT    COXSl'LTS    THE    CI.EKGVMAX.  II5 

"Then  a  letter  from  foreign  parts  came  for  him,  and  I 
felt  sure  it  must  l)c  from  Christian.  God  for^^ive  me.  but 
I  kept  it  back  !  I  tliouii^ht  there  \vould  be  no  more,  but 
another  came  ;  and,  as  I  had  kept  tlic  first,  I  thouij^ht  I 
must  keep  tlic  second,  too.  But.  dear  me  I  it  seemed  as 
if  tliev  wouhl  burn  a  liole  throuijli  the  Ijox  where  I  liad 
put  them  ;  and  my  thoui^lits  were  tliere  from  as  soon  as  I 
openerl  my  eves  in  the  mornins:^  till  late  at  nij^ht  when  I 
shut  them.  And  then. —  did  vou  ever  hear  of  anything 
worse! — a  third  letter  came.  I  held  it  in  my  hand  a 
(juarter  of  an  hour  :  I  kept  it  in  my  bosom  three  days, 
weighing  in  my  mind  whether  I  should  giye  it  to  him  or 
put  it  with  the  others  ;  but  then  I  thought  perhaps  it 
would  lure  him  away  from  me,  and  so  I  couldn't  help 
putting  it  with  the  others.  But  now  I  felt  miserable 
cyer\-  day.  not  only  ab(nit  the  letters  in  the  box.  but  also 
for  fear  another  might  come.  T  was  afraid  of  eycrybody 
who  came  to  the  house  ;  when  \ye  were  sitting  together 
inside.  1  trembled  wheneyer  I  heard  the  door  go,  for  fear 
it  might  be  somebody  with  a  letter,  and  then  he  might 
get  it.  \\'hen  he  was  away  in  the  parish.  I  went  about  at 
home  thinking  he  might  perhaps  get  a  letter  \vhile  there, 
and  then  it  ^\ould  tell  him  about  those  that  had  already 
come.  When  I  saw  him  coming  home.  I  used  to  look  at 
his  face  while  he  \yas  \et  a  long  wa\'  otb.  and.  oh.  dear  I 
how  happy  I  felt  when  he  smiled  :  tor  then  I  knew  he 
had  got  no  letter.  lie  had  grown  so  handsome;  like  his 
father,  only  fiirer.  and  more  gentle-looking.  And.  then, 
he  had  such  a  yoice  :  when  he  sat  at  the  door  in  the 
c\'ening-sun,  singing  towards  the  mountain  ridge,  and 
listening  to  the  echo.  T  felt  that  li\e  without  him.  T  never 
could.  If  1  onl\'  saw  liim.  or  knew  he  was  somewhere 
near,  and  he  seemed  prett\-  happy,  and  would  onl\'  give 
me  a  woi'd  now  and  then.  I  wanted  nothing  move  on 
earth,  and  I  wouldn't  have  shed  one  tear  less. 


Il6  ARXE. 

"  But  just  when  he  seemed  to  be  getting  on  better  with 
people,  and  felt  happier  among  them,  there  came  a  mes- 
sage from  the  post-office  tliat  a  fourtli  letter  had  come  ; 
and  in  it  were  two  hundred  dollars  !  I  thought  I  should 
have  fell  flat  down  where  I  stood :  what  could  I  do  ? 
The  letter.  I  might  get  rid  of,  'twas  true  :  l)ut  the  monev? 
For  two  or  three  nights  I  couldn't  sleep  for  it :  a  little 
while  I  left  it  up-stairs,  then,  in  the  cellar  behind  a  barrel, 
and  once  I  was  so  overdone  that  I  laid  it  in  the  window 
so  that  he  might  find  it.  But  when  I  heard  him  coming, 
I  took  it  back  again.  At  last,  however.  I  found  a  way  : 
I  gave  him  the  money  and  told  him  it  had  been  put  out 
at  interest  in  mv  mother's  lifetime.  He  laid  it  out  upon 
the  land,  just  as  I  thought  he  would  ;  and  so  it  wasn't 
wasted.  But  that  same  harvest-time,  wlien  he  was  sit- 
ting at  home  one  evening,  he  began  talking  about  Cliris- 
tian.  and  wondering  whv  he  had  so  clean  forgotten  him. 

"  Xow  again  the  wound  opened,  and  the  mone\-  burned 
me  so  tliat  I  was  obliged  to  go  out  of  the  room.  I  had 
sinned,  and  yet  my  sin  had  answered  no  end.  J^^ince 
then.  I  have  hardly  dared  to  look  into  his  eyes,  l^lessed  as 
thev  are. 

"  The  mother  who  has  siimed  against  her  own  cliihl  is 
the  most  miseral)le  of  all  mothers  ;  .  .  .  and  \et  1  did  it 
only  out  of  love.  .  .  .  And  so,  I  dare  say,  I  sliall  be  j)uii- 
ished  accordingly  bv  the  loss  of  what  I  love  most.  l"or 
since  the  middle  of  the  winter,  he  has  again  taken  to 
singing  the  tune  that  he  used  to  sing  when  I'lC  was  long- 
ing to  go  away  ;  he  has  sung  it  ever  since  lie  was  a  lad, 
and  whenever  I  hear  it  1  grcnv  pale.  Then  T  feel  1  could 
give  up  all  for  him  ;  and  only  see  this."  .She  took  from 
her  bosom  a  ]:)iece  of  paper,  unfolded  it  and  gave  it  to 
the  Clerg\man.  ■•lie  now  and  then  writes  sometliing 
here  ;  I  tliink  it's  some  words  to  that  tune.  ...  I  brought 


MARGIT    COXSUI.TS    THE    CLERG\'MAX.  II7 

it  with  nie  ;  for  I  can't  myself  read  such  small  writing 
.  .  .  will  you  look  and  see  if  there  isn't  something  writ- 
ten about  his  going  away.   .   .   ." 

There  was  only  one  whole  verse  on  the  paper.  For 
the  second  verse,  there  were  onlv  a  few  half-finished  lines, 
as  if  the  song  was  one  he  had  forgotten,  and  was  now 
coming  into  his  memory  again,  line  by  line.  The  first 
verse  ran  thus,  — 

"  What  shall  I  see  if  I  ever  go 

Over  the  mountains  high.'' 
Now  I  can  see  but  the  peaks  of  snow. 
Crowning  the  clilfs  where  the  pine  trees  grow, 
Waiting  and  longing  to  rise 
Nearer  the  beckoning  skies." 

"  Is  there  anything  about  his  going  away.'"'  asked  Mar- 
git. 

"Yes,  it  is  about  that,"  replied  the  Clergyman,  putting 
the  paper  down. 

''  Wasn't  I  sure  of  it !  Ah  nie  !  I  knew  the  tune  !  " 
She  sat  with  folded  hands,  looking  intentlv  and  anxiously 
into  the  Clergyman's  face,  while  tear  after  tear  fell  down 
her  cheeks. 

The  Clergvman  knew  no  more  what  to  d(^  in  the  mat- 
ter than  she  did.  ''  Well,  I  tlfink  the  lad  must  be  left 
alone  in  this  case,"  he  said.  '•  Life  can't  lie  made  diiVer- 
ent  for  his  sake  ;  but  what  he  will  find  in  it  must  depend 
upon  himself;  no\v.  it  seems,  he  wislies  to  go  away  in 
search  of  life's  good." 

'•  But  isn't  that  just  what  the  old  crone  did.'  " 

''  The  did  crone  .'  "' 

'•  Ves  :  she  who  \yent  awav  to  fetch  the  sunshine,  in- 
stead of  making  windows  in  the  \yall  to  let  it  in." 

The  Clergvman  was  much  astonished  at  Margit's 
words,  and  so  lie  had  been  before,  when  she  came  speak 


Il8  ARNE. 

to  him  on  this  subject ;  but^  indeed,  she  had  thought  of 
hardly  anything  else  for  eight  years. 

''Do  you  think  he'll  go  away?  what  am  I  to  do?  and 
the  money?  and  the  letters?"  All  these  questions 
crowded  upon  her  at  once. 

'•  Well,  as  to  the  letters,  that  wasn't  quite  right.  Keep- 
ing back  what  belonged  to  your  son,  can't  be  justified. 
But  it  was  still  worse  to  make  a  fellow  Christian  appear 
in  a  bad  light  when  he  didn't  deserve  it ;  and  cspeciall}^ 
as  he  was  one  whom  Arne  was  so  fond  of,  and  who  loved 
him  so  dearly  in  return.  But  we  will  pray  God  to  for- 
give you  ;  we  will  both  pray." 

Margit  still  sat  with  her  liands  folded,  and  her  head 
bent  down. 

'•  How  I  should  pray  him  to  forgive  me,  if  I  only  knew 
he  would  stav  !  "  she  said  :  surelv,  she  was  confounding 
our  Lord  witli  Arne.  The  CIerg\nian,  however,  ap- 
peared as  if  he  did  not  notice  it. 

"Do  you  intend  to  confess  it  to  him  directly?"  he 
asked. 

.She  looked  down,  and  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  should 
much  like  to  wait  a  little  if  I  dared." 

The  Clergvman  turned  aside  with  a  smile,  and  asked, 
"•  Don't  you  believe  your  sin  becomes  greater,  the  longer 
you  delay  confessing  it?" 

She  pulled  lier  handkerchief  about  with  both  hands, 
foldrd  it  into  a  ver\-  small  square,  and  tried  to  fold  it  into 
a  still  smaller  one,  but  could  not. 

"If  1  confess  about  the  letters,  I'm  afraid  he'll  go 
awav." 

'"Then,  vou  dare  not  rely  upon  our  Lcjrd  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  do,  indeed,"  she  said  hurriedly  ;  and  then 
she  added  in  a  low  voice,  '"but  still,  if  he  were  to  go 
away  from   me  ?  " 


MARGIT    CONSULTS    TIIK    CLKRGVMAX.  II9 

"  Then,  I  see  you  arc  more  afraid  of  his  going  away 
than  of  continuing  to  sin?" 

Margit  had  unfcjlded  her  handkerchief  again ;  and  now 
she  put  it  to  her  eyes,  for  slie  began  weeping.  Tiie  Cler- 
gyman remained  for  a  while  Icjoking  at  her  silentl}' ;  then 
he  went  on,  "•  Why,  then,  did  vou  tell  me  all  this,  if  it 
was  not  to  lead  tt)  an\thing.' ''  He  waited  long,  but  slie 
did  not  answer.  "  Perhaps  you  thought  your  sin  wcndd 
become  less  when  aou  had  confessed  it.'" 

'•  Yes.  I  did."  slie  said,  almost  in  a  whisper,  while  her 
head  bent  still  lower  upini  her  breast. 

The  Clergyman  smiled  and  rose.  "  Well.  well,  my 
good  ^Margit,  take  courage  ;  I  hope  all  will  yet  turn  out 
for  the  best." 

'•■  Do  \'ou  think  so.'"  she  asked,  looking  up  ;  and  a  sad 
smile  passed  o\'er  her  tear-marked  face. 

"  Ves.  I  do;  I  belieye  God  \vill  no  longer  try  }OU. 
You  will  haye   jo}   in  yoiu'  oltl  age,  I  am  sure." 

'•  If  I  might  only  keep  the  jcn'  I  haye  !  "  she  said  ;  and 
the  Clergyman  thought  slie  seemed  unal)le  to  fancy  any 
greater  happiness  than  li\ing  in  that  constant  anxiety. 
lie  smiled  and  lilled   his   pipe. 

'■  If  we  hatl  but  a  little  girl.  now.  who  could  take  hf)ld 
on  him.  then  I'm  sure  he  would  sta\ ." 

'•  Vou  may  be  sure  I'ye  thought  of  that."  she  saiel, 
shaking  her  heatl. 

••  Well,  there's  h^li  Biicn  ;  she  might  be  one  who  \\"()ul(l 
please  him." 

••  You  may  be  sure  Fnc  thought  of  that."  Slie  rocked 
the  upper  part  of  her  l)od\-  backwards  and  f  )rwards. 

"•  If  we  could  coiitri\e  tliat  thc\-  might  oftener  see  each 
other  here  at  the  [)arsonage?  " 

'•  You  may  be  sure  I'n  e  thought  of  that  ! "  ."^^he 
clappcil  her  liands  antl   looked  at  the  Clerg\ man  with  a 


I20  ARNE. 

smile  all  over  her  face.  He  stopped  while  he  was  light- 
ing his  pipe. 

"  Perhaps  this,  after  all,  was  what  brought  you  here 
to-day  ? " 

She  looked  down,  put  two  fingers  into  the  folded 
handkerchief,  and  pulled  out  one  corner  of  it. 

"  Ah,  well,  God  help  me,  perhaps  it  was  this  I  wanted." 

The  Clergyman  walked  up  and  down,  and  smiled. 
"  Perhaps,  too,  you  came  for  the  same  thing  the  last  time 
you  \vere  here.'^ " 

She  pulled  out  the  corner  of  the  handkerchief  still 
farther,  and  hesitated  awhile.  "  Well,  as  you  ask  me, 
perhaps  I  did  —  yes." 

The  Clergyman  went  on  smoking.  "  Then.  too.  it  was 
to  carry  this  point  that  you  confessed  at  last  the  thing  you 
had  on  your  conscience." 

vShe  spread  out  the  handkerchief  to  fold  it  up  smoothly 
again.  "  Xo  ;  ah,  no  ;  that  weighed  so  heavily  upon  me, 
I  felt  I  must  tell  it  to  you,  father." 

"Well,  ^vell,  my  dear  Tvlargit,  wc  will  talk  no  more 
about  it." 

Then,  while  he  was  walking  up  and  down,  he  suddenly 
added,  "  Do  vou  think  vou  wtniUl  of  yourself  have  come 
out  to  me  with  this  wish  of  vours?" 

"Well,  —  I  had  already  come  out  with  so  much,  that  1 
dare  sa\'  this,  too.  would  have  come  out  at  last." 

The  Clergvman  lauglied.  but  he  did  not  tell  her  what 
he  thought.  After  a  wliile  he  stocnl  still.  "Well,  wc 
will  manage  this  matter  f  )r  you.  iSlargit,"  he  said. 

"(jod  bless  \<)u  f)r  it!"  She  rose  to  go,  for  she  un- 
derstood he  had  now  said  all  he  wislied  to  say. 

"And  we  will  look  after  them  a  little." 

"I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you  enough,"  she  said, 
tiikinir  his  hand   and  courtesviuir. 


MARGIT    CONSULTS    THE    CLEKGYMAX.  121 

"  God  be  with  you  !  "  he  rc2:)licd. 

She  wiped  her  eyes  with  the  handkerchief,  went  tow- 
ards the  door,  coiu'tesied  again,  and  said,  "  Good  bye," 
wlhle  she  slowly  opened  and  shut  it.  But  so  liglitly  as 
she  went  towards  Kampen  that  day,  she  had  not  gone  for 
nianv,  many  years.  When  she  had  come  far  enough  to 
see  the  thick  smoke  curling  up  cheerfully  from  the  chim- 
ney, she  blessed  the  liouse,  the  whole  place,  the  Clergy- 
man and  Arne,  —  and  remembered  they  were  going  to 
have  her  favorite  dish,  smoked  ham,  for  dinner. 


122  AKXE. 


XIV. 

FINDING  A   LOST  SONG. 

KAMPEN  \vas  a  beautiful  place.  It  was  situated  in 
the  middle  of  a  plain,  Ixjrdered  on  the  one  side  ])y 
a  ravine,  and  on  the  other,  ])y  the  high-road  ;  just  beyond 
the  road  was  a  thick  wood,  with  a  mountain  ridge  rising 
bcliind  it,  while  high  above  all  stood  blue  mountains 
crowned  with  snow.  On  the  other  side  of  the  ravine 
also  was  a  wide  range  of  mountains,  running  rcnmd  the 
Swart-water  on  the  side  where  Boen  was  situated  :  it 
grew  luglier  as  it  ran  towards  Kampen,  but  then  turned 
suddenly  sidewards,  forming  tlie  broad  valley  called  the 
Lower-tract,  which  began  here,  for  Kampen  v.as  the  last 
place  in  the  Upi^er-tract. 

The  front  door  of  the  (Kvelling-house  opened  towards 
the  road,  which  was  about  two  thousand  paces  olF,  and  a 
path  with  leafy  Ijirch-trees  011  botli  sides  led  thither.  In 
front  of  the  hcnise  was  a  little  garden,  \\  liicli  Arne  managed 
according  t(^  the  rules  given  in  his  books.  The  catlle- 
hmiscs  and  barns  were  nearly  all  new-built,  and  sttxjd  to 
the  left  hand,  farming  a  square.  The  house  was  t\v(- 
stories  high,  and  was  painted  red,  with  white  wind(AV- 
frames  and  doors  ;  the  roof  was  of  turf  with  many  siuall 
plants  growing  upoi;  it,  and  on  the  ridge  was  a  vane- 
spindle,  where  turned  an  iron  ccjck  with  a  high  raised 
tail. 

Sj)ring  had  come  to  the  mountain-tracts.  It  was  Sun- 
day morning;   the  weather  was  mild  and  calm,  but  the 


FINDING    A    LOST    SONG.  1 23 

air  was  somewhat  heavy,  and  the  mist  hiy  low  on  the 
forest,  though  Margit  said  it  would  rise  later  in  the  day. 
Arne  had  read  the  sermon,  and  sung  the  hymns  to  his 
mother,  and  he  felt  better  for  them  himself.  Now  he 
stood  readv  dressed  to  go  to  the  parsonage.  When  he 
opened  the  door  the  fresh  smell  of  the  leaves  met  him  ; 
the  garden  lay  dewy  and  bright  in  the  morning  breeze, 
but  from  the  ravine  sounded  the  roaring  of  the  waterfdl, 
now  in  lower,  then  again  in  louder  booms,  till  all  around 
seemed  to  tremble. 

Arne  walked  upwards.  .As  he  went  farther  from  the 
fall,  its  booming  l)ecame  less  awful,  and  soon  it  lay  over 
the  landscape  like  tlie  deep  tones  of  an  organ. 

"  God  be  with  him  wherever  he  goes  ! "  the  mother 
said,  ojiening  tlie  window  and  looking  after  him  till  he 
disappeared  behind  the  shrul:)s.  The  mist  had  gradualh' 
risen,  the  sun  shone  l)right,  the  fields  and  garden  became 
full  of  fresh  life,  and  the  things  Arne  had  sown  and 
tended  grew  and  sent  up  odor  and  gladness  to  his 
mother.  *•  Spring  is  beautiful  to  those  who  have  had  a 
long  winter,"  she  said,  looking  awa\'  over  the  fields,  as 
if  in  thought. 

Arne  had  no  positi\'e  errantl  at  the  parsonage,  but  he 
thought  he  might  go  there  to  ask  about  the  newspapers 
wliich  he  shared  with  the  Clergyman.  Recently  he  h.ad 
read  tlie  names  of  several  Norwegians  who  had  been 
successful  in  gold  digging  in  .Vnierica.  and  among  them 
was  Christian.  His  rehitions  had  long  since  left  tlie 
pkice.  but  ^Vrne  bad  laleh'  heard  a  rumor  thai  the\'  ex- 
pecteil  him  to  come  lionie  soon.  About  tliis.  also.  ^\nie 
th(.)uglit  he  might  he;ir  at  the  [)arsonage  :  and  ifCiiristian 
luul  alreadv  returned,  he  wouUl  go  down  and  see  him 
between  s[)ring  and  liav-harvest.  Tliese  thoughts  oc- 
cupied   his    mind    till    he    came    tar    enough    to    see    ihie 


124  ARNE. 

Swart-water  and  Bocn  on  the  other  side.  There,  too, 
tlie  inist  had  risen,  but  it  lay  lingering  on  the  mountain- 
sides, while  their  peaks  rose  clear  above,  and  the  sun- 
beams plaved  on  the  plain  ;  on  the  right  hand,  the 
shadow  of  the  wood  darkened  the  water,  but  before 
the  houses  the  lake  had  strewed  its  white  sand  on  the 
Hat  shore.  All  at  once,  Arne  fancied  himself  in  the  red- 
painted  house  with  the  white  doors  and  windows,  which 
he  had  taken  as  a  model  for  his  own.  He  did  not  think  of 
those  first  gloomy  days  he  had  passed  there,  but  only 
of  that  summer  they  both  saw  —  he  and  Eli  —  up  beside 
her  sick-bed.  He  had  not  Ijeen  there  since  ;  nor  would 
he  have  gone  for  the  whole  world.  If  his  thoughts  but 
touched  on  that  time,  he  turned  crimson  ;  yet  he  thought 
of  it  many  limes  a  day  ;  and  if  anything  could  have  driven 
him  awa\'  from  the  parish,  it  was  this. 

He  strode  onwards,  as  if  to  flee  from  his  thouglits  ;  but 
the  farther  he  went,  the  nearer  he  came  to  J5(ien.  and 
the  more  he  looked  at  it.  Idie  mist  had  disappeaied.  the 
sk\'  shone  bright  l)etween  the  frame  of  mountains,  the 
birds  floated  in  the  siumy  air,  calling  to  each  other,  and 
the  fields  laughed  with  millions  of  flowers ;  here  no 
thundering  waterfall  l)(j\ve(l  the  gladness  to  submissive 
awe,  but  full  of  life  it  gaml)olled  and  sang  without  check 
or  pause. 

.\riie  \valked  till  he  became  glowing  hot;  then  he 
threw  himself  down  on  the  grass  beneath  the  shadow  of 
a  hill  and  l(;oked  towards  J5oen,  but  he  sf)on  turned  away 
again  to  a\oid  seeing  it.  'J'hen  he  heard  a  song  above 
him,  so  wonderfullv  clear  as  he  had  never  heai^d  a  song 
befoie.  It  came  flcKiting  o\er  the  meadows,  mingled 
with  the  chattering  of  tlie  birds,  and  he  had  scarcely 
recognized  the  tune  ere  lie  recognized  the  words  also  : 
the  tune  was  the  one  he  loved  better  than  any  ;  the  words 


FINDING    A    LOST    SONG.  13^ 

were  those  he  had  borne  in  his  mind  ever  since  he  was  a 
bov,  and  had  forgotten  tliat  same  day  they  were  ])r()u;j,ht 
forth.  He  sprang'  up  as  if  he  would  catch  them,  but 
then  stopped  and  hstened  while  verse  after  verse  came 
streaming  down  to  him  :  — 

'•  What  shall  I  see  if  I  ever  go 
Over  the  mountains  high? 
Now,  I  can  see  but  the  peaks  of  snow, 
Crowning  the  clitYs  where  the  pine-trees  grow, 
Waiting  and  longing  to  rise 
Nearer  the  beckoning  skies. 

"  Th'  eagle  is  rising  afar  away, 

0\er  tlie  mountains  high, 
Rowing  along  in  the  radiant  day 
With  mighty  strokes  to  his  distant  prey, 

Where  he  wiH,  swoojiing  downwards, 

Wliere  he  will,  sailing  onwards. 

"Apple-tree,  longest  thou  not  to  go 

Over  the  mountains  high? 
Gladly  thou  growest  in  summer's  glow", 
Patiently  waitest  through  winter's  snow  : 

Though  birds  on  tliy  brandies  swing. 

Thou  knowe>l  not  what  tliey  sing. 

"  lie  who  has  twent\-  years  longed  to  tlee 

Over  the  mountains  high  — 
Me  who  be\omi  them.  nc\er  will  see, 
.Smaller,  ami  smaller,  each  _\ear  must  be: 

He  hears  what  the  hirils  say 

Wiiile  on  thy  boughs  they  play. 

"Birds,  with  vour  chattering,  why  tiid  \e  come 

Ovei-  the  mountains  high? 
Bevond.  in  a  sunniei"  land  \e  coukl  roam. 
And  nearer  to  hea\en  could  build  your  home; 

Wliy  have  \e  come  to  bring 

Longing,  without  \()ur  wing? 


126  ARNE. 

"  Shall  I,  then,  never,  never  flee 

Over  the  mountains  high? 
Rocky  warts,  will  ye  always  be 
Prisons  until  ye  are  tombs  for  me?  — 

Until  I  lie  at  your  feet 

Wrapped  in  my  winding-sheet? 

"Away!  I  will  away,  afar  away, 
Over  the  mountains  high  ! 
Here,  I  am  sinking  lower  each  day, 
Though  my  Spirit  has  chosen  the  loftiest  way: 
Let  her  in  freedom  fl  \' ; 
Not,  beat  on  the  walls  and  die! 

"  Once,  I  know,  I  shall  journey  far 

Over  the  mountains  high. 
Lord,  is  thy  door  alreadv  ajar?  — 
I3ear  is  the  lionic  where  thy  saved  ones  are;  — 

Hut  bar  it  awhile  from  me, 

And  help  me  to  long  for  Thee." 

Arnc  stDod  listcnin<^  till  the  sound  of  the  last  verse,  the 
last  \vf)r(ls  (lied  awa\-  ;  then  he  heard  tlie  birds  sint^  and 
play  ai^ain.  but  he  dared  not  move,  ^'et  he  must  iind 
out  who  had  been  sin^ini^.  and  he  lifted  his  foot  and 
^valked  on.  so  carefullv  that  lie  did  not  hear  the  <^rass 
rustle.  A  little  butterll\-  settled  on  a  llower  at  his  feet, 
f1e\v  up  and  settled  a  little  \va\  before  him.  Hew  up  and 
settled  attain,  and  so  on  all  o\'er  the  hill.  Hut  soon  he 
eame  to  a  thick  bush  and  slopped  ;  for  a  bird  ilew  out 
of  it  with  a  frii^ditened  •Mjuitt.  cpiitt  I  "  and  rushed  away 
(ACT  the  slopini^'  hill-side.  'J'hen  she  wlio  ^vas  sitti!i<^ 
there  looked  up  ;  Arne  stooped  low  down,  his  heart 
throbbfd  till  he  heard  its  beats,  he  held  his  breath, 
and  was  aiVaid  to  stir  a  leaf;  for  it  was  I'^li  whom  he 
saw. 

After  a  lon;^  while  he  ventured  to  look  up  again;   he 


MNDIXC;    A    I-OST    SONC.  1 27 

wislicd  to  draw  nearer,  but  lie  tli()u;j;-ht  the  bird  perliaps 
had  its  nest  under  the  bush,  and  he  was  afraid  he  might 
tread  on  it.  I'hen  he  peeped  between  tlie  lea\es  as  the\- 
blew  aside  and  elosed  ag'ain.  The  sun  shone  full  upon 
her.  She  wore  a  close-fitting-  black  dress  with  long- 
white  sleeves,  and  a  straw  hat  like  those  worn  b-y  boys. 
In  her  lap  a  book  was  lying  with  a  lieap  of  wild  flowers 
upon  it  ;  her  right  hand  was  listlessh-  playing  witli  them 
as  if  she  were  in  thought,  and  her  left  supported  her 
head.  She  was  looking  away  towards  the  place  where 
the  bird  had  flown,  and  she  seemed  as  if  she  had  l)een 
weeping. 

Anvthing  more  beautiful,  Arne  had  never  seen  or 
dreametl  of  in  all  his  life  ;  the  sun,  too.  had  spread  its 
gold  o\  er  her  and  the  place  ;  and  the  song  still  hovei-ed 
round  her.  so  that  Arne  thought,  breathed  —  na\-.  e\'en  his 
heart  beat,  in  tinie  with  it.  It  seemed  so  strange  that  the 
song  which  bore  all  his  longing,  he  had  forgotten,  l)ut  she 
had  found. 

A  tawnv  wasp  flew  roimd  her  in  circles  manv  times, 
till  :it  last  she  saw  it  and  frightened  it  awa\-  with  a 
flower-stalk,  \vhich  she  put  up  as  often  as  it  came  before 
her.  Then  she  took  uj")  tlie  book  and  opened  it.  but  she 
soon  closed  it  again,  sal  as  bcf)re.  and  began  to  hum 
another  song.  He  could  lu-ar  it  -nnjis  ••  The  Tree's  early 
leaf-buds,"  tliough  she  often  made  mistakes,  as  it"  she  did 
not  ([uite  remember  eitlier  tlie  woi-ils  or  the  tuiie.  The 
verse  she  knew  best  was  the  last  one.  and  so  she  ot'ten 
repealeel  it ;   but  she  sang  it  thus  ;  — 

"The  Tree  bore  his  lierrios.  so  mellow  ami  red  : 
'May  I  LTatlier  thv  hen-ie>?"  a  .sweet  iiKiiden  said. 

'  \'os  ;    all  thou  eanst  see; 

Take  them;    all  are  tor  thee' 
Said  the  Tree — Irala  —  lala,  trala,  hila — said." 


128  AKNE. 

Then  she  suddenly  sprang  up,  scattering  all  the  flowers 
around  her,  and  sang  till  the  tune  trembled  through  the 
air,  and  might  have  been  heard  at  Boen.  Arne  had 
thought  of  coming  forwards  when  she  began  singing  ; 
he  was  just  about  to  do  so  when  she  jvmiped  up  ;  then  he 
felt  he  »nist  come,  but  she  went  away.  Should  lie  call? 
No,  —  yes  !  Xo  I  — There  she  skipped  over  the  liillocks 
singing;  here  her  hat  fell  off,  there  she  took  it  up  again  ; 
here  she  picked  a  flower,  there  she  stood  deep  in  the 
highest  grass. 

'•  SiuiU  I  call.?     She's  looking  v.^  here  !  " 

He  stooped  down.  It  was  a  long  while  ere  he  ven- 
tured to  peep  out  again  ;  at  flrst  he  only  raised  his  head  ; 
he  could  not  see  her  :  he  rose  to  his  knees  ;  still  he  could 
not  see  her :  he  stood  U2:)right ;  no  she  was  gone.  lie 
thought  himself  a  miserable  fellow  ;  and  some  of  the 
tales  he  had  heard  at  the  nutting-party  came  into  his 
mind. 

Now  he  would  not  go  to  the  parsonage.  lie  W(juld 
not  have  the  newspapers ;  would  not  know  anything 
alxHit  Christian.  lie  would  not  go  home;  he  would  go 
nowhere  ;   he  would  do  nothing. 

'•  Oil,  God,  I  am  so  unhappy  !  "  he  said. 

lie  sprang  up  again  and  sang  ''The  Tree's  early  leaf- 
buds"  till  the  moinitains  resounded. 

Then  he  sat  down  where  she  had  been  sitting,  and 
took  up  the  flcnvers  she  had  picked,  but  lie  flung  them 
a\\a\-  again  down  the  liill  on  e\ery  .si(k'.  Then  lie  wept. 
It  was  long  since  he  had  (k^ne  so  ;  this  struck  liim,  and 
mack'  him  wcc))  still  more.  He  woukl  go  far  away,  that 
he  would  ;  no,  he  w(nil(l  not  go  awa\'  I  He  thcniglit  he  was 
ver}'  unliappy  ;  but  when  he  asked  himseU' why,  he  could 
hardly  telL  He  l(;oked  round.  It  was  a  lovely  da}  ;  and 
the  Sabbath  rest  las'  over  all.     The  lake  was  without  a 


FIXDIXG    A    LOST    SOXG.  1 29 

ripple  ;  from  the  houses  tiie  curh'ng  smoke  had  be<^uii  to 
rise  ;  the  partridjj^es  one  after  anotlier  had  ceased  calhni^, 
and  though  the  little  birds  continued  their  Iwittei'injg.  they 
went  towartls  the  sluule  of  the  \\o<k1  ;  the  dewdrops  \verc 
gone,  and  the  grass  looked  gra\e  ;  not  a  breath  of  wind 
stirred  the  drooping  leaves;  and  the  sun  was  near  the 
meritlian.  Almost  before  he  knew,  he  f)uu(l  himself 
seated  putting  togetlier  a  little  s(jng  ;  a  sweet  tune  ollered 
itself  tor  it  ;  and  \vhile  his  heart  was  strangely  full  of 
gentle  leehngs,  the  tune  went  and  came  till  wortls  linked 
themselves  to  it  and  begged  to  be  simg,  if  onl}-  tor  once, 
lie  sang  them  gently,  sitting  where  Eli  had  sat: 

"  lie  went  in  the  forest  the  whole  clay  long, 
The  whole  clav  long; 

For  there  he  had  heard  siH'h  a  wondrous  song, 
A  wondrous  song. 

'*  He  fashioned  a  tlute  tVoni  a  willow  spray, 
A  willow  spray, 

To  see  if  within  it  the  sweet  tune  lay, 
The  sweet  tune  lay. 

"It  whispered  and  toUl  him  its  name  at  last, 
Its  name  at  hist ; 

But  then,  while  he  listened.  aw:i_\   it  ]>assetl, 
Away  ft  passed. 

"But  oft  when  he  slumhered.  again  it  stole, 
Again  it  stole. 

With  touches  of  love  upon  his  soul, 
I'pon  his  soul. 

'■Then  he  trietl  to  eateh  it.  and  keep  it  fast. 
And  keep  it  I'a^t  ; 

]>ut  he  woke,  and  awav  i"  the  niglit  it  passeti, 
r  the  night  it  pa>sed. 

9 


130  ARNE. 

"  'My  Lord,  let  me  pass  in  the  night,  I  praj, 
In  tlie  night.  I  pray; 
For  the  tune  has  taken  my  heart  away, 
My  heart  away.' 

"Then  answered  the  Lord,  '  It  is  thy  friend, 
It  is  thy  friend. 

Though  not  for  an  hour  shall  thy  longing  end, 
Thy  longing  end : 

"  'And  all  the  others  are  nothing  to  thee. 
Nothing  to  thee, 

To  this  that  thou  seekest  and  never  shalt  see, 
Never  shalt  see.'" 


bOAll;.iJUI>V  S    FLTLKK    liOMi.,  13! 


XV. 

SOMEBODIES  FUTURE   HOME. 

"  /'"^  OOD  bye,"  suid  Margit  at  the  Clergyman's  door. 

^^  It  was  a  Sunday  evening  in  advancing  summer- 
time ;  tlie  Clergyman  had  returned  from  church,  and 
jMargit  had  been  sittii:g  with  him  till  now,  when  it  was 
seven  o'clock.  "  Good  bye,  JMargit,"  said  the  Clergyman. 
She  hurried  down  the  door-steps  and  into  the  yard  ;  for 
she  had  seen  Eli  Buen  playing  there  with  her  brother  and 
the  Clergyman's  son. 

"  Good  evening,"  said  Margit,  stopping ;  "  and  God 
bless  you  all." 

"  Good  evening,"  answered  Eli.      .She  blushed  crimson 
and  wanted  to  leave  otT  the  game  ;   the  boys  begged  her 
to  keep  on,  but  she  persuaded  them  to  let  her  go  for  that 
evening. 
'  ''  I  almost  think  I  know  you,"  said  Margit. 

"Very  likely." 

"Isn't  it  Eli  Boen.?" 

Yes,  it  was. 

"  Dear  me  !  you're  Eli  Bcien  ;  yes,  now  I  see  you're 
like   your  mother." 

Eli's  auburn  hair  had  come  unfastened,  and  hinig  do\vn 
over  her  neck  and  shoulders  :  she  was  hot  and  as  red  as 
a  chcrrv,  her  bosom  llultcrcd  up  ami  down,  and  she  couUl 
scarcely  speak,  but  laughed  because  she  was  so  out  of 
breath. 

"  Well,  young  folks  should  be  merry,"  said  Margit,  feel- 


132  ARNE. 

ing-  happy  as  she  looked  at  her.  "P'r'aps  you  don't  know 
me  ?  " 

If  Mar^^it  liad  not  been  her  senior,  Eli  would  probably 
have  asked  her  name,  but  no\v  she  only  said  she  did  not 
remember  having  seen  her  before. 

'•  Xo  ;  I  dare  sav  not:  old  folks  don't  go  out  mucli. 
But  my  son,  p'r'aps  you  know  a  little  —  Arne  Kampen  ; 
I'm  his  mother,"  said  Margit,  with  a  stolen  glance  at  Eli, 
\\  lio  suddeidy  looked  grave  and  breathed  slowly.  "  I'm 
jDretty  sure  he  worked  at  BiJen  once." 

Yes,  Eli  thought  he  did. 

•'  It's  a  fine  evening ;  we  turned  our  hay  this  morning, 
and  got  it  in  before  I  came  away  ;  it's  good  weather 
indeed  for  everything." 

••  There  will  be  a  good  hay-hai"vest  this  year,"  Eli 
suggested. 

"  Yes.  you  may  well  say  that;  everything's  getting  on 
well  at  Bcien.  I  suppose?" 

"We  have  got  in  all  our  hav." 

''  Oh,  yes,  I  dare  sa\-  vou  have  ;  your  folks  work  well, 
and  they  have  plent\-  of  help.  Are  you  going  home  to- 
night?" 

No,  she  was  not. 

'•Couldn't  \ou  go  a  little  way  with  me?  I  so  seldom 
have  aiubodv  to  talk  to  ;  and  it  will  be  all  the  same  to 
}ou.  I  suppose  ?  " 

Eli  excused  liersell".  sa\ing  she  had  not  her  jacket  on. 

'A\  ell,  it's  a  shame  to  ask  such  a  tlu'ng  the  first  time 
of  seeing  au\bodv  ;  Init  one  must  put  up  with  old  folks' 
wa\  s." 

EU  said  slie  would  go  ;  she  would  oidv  fetch  her  jacket 
first. 

It  was  a  close-fitting  jacket,  which  when  fistened 
looked  like  a  diess  witii  a  Ixnlice  ;   but  n(nv  she  fastened 


SOMEBODY  S    KUTUllK    HOME.  13;^ 

only  two  of  the  lower  liooks,  because  she  was  so  hot. 
Her  fine  linen  bodice  had  a  little  turned-down  collar, 
and  was  fastened  with  a  silver  stud  in  tlie  shape  of  a  bird 
with  spread  wings.  Just  such  a  one,  Nils,  the  tailor, 
wore  the   ih^st  time  IMargit  danced  with  him. 

"A  pretty  stud,"  she  said,  looking-  at  it. 

"  Mother  gave  it  me." 

"Ah,  I  tiiought  so,"  Alargit  said,  helping  her  with  the 
jacket. 

Thev  walked  onwards  over  the  fields.  The  hay  was 
King  in  heaps  ;  and  Margit  took  up  a  handful,  smelled 
it,  and  thought  it  was  very  good.  She  asked  about  the 
cattle  at  the  parsonage,  and  this  led  her  to  ask  also  about 
the  live  stock  at  liiien,  and  then  she  told  how  much  the\ 
had  at  Kampen.  "  The  farm  has  imj:iroved  very  much 
these  last  few  years,  anel  it  can  still  be  made  twice  as 
large.  He  keeps  twehe  milch-cows  now,  and  he  could 
keep  several  more,  but  he  reads  so  manv  books  and 
manages  according  to  them,  and  so  he  will  have  the  cows 
fed  in  such  a  first-rate  way." 

Eli.  as  might  be  expected,  said  notliing  to  all  this  ;  and 
Margit  then  asketl  lier  age.      vShe  was  abo\c'  twentv. 

"  Have  vou  helped  in  tlie  house-work.^  Not  much.  I 
dare  sav  —  ^■ou  look  so  spruce." 

Yes.  she  had  helpeil  a  good  deal,  espcciallv  of  late. 

■•Well,  it's  best  to  use  one's  self  to  do  a  little  of  e\'er\- 
thing  ;  when  one  gets  a  large  house  of  one's  own.  there's 
a  great  deal  to  be  done.  l)Ut.  <.)f  cour>e.  wlien  (.ne  finds 
good  help  alread\  in  the  house  before  her,  why,  it  tloesn't 
matter  so  nuich." 

Now  Kli  thought  she  nuist  go  back  ;  tor  thev  had  gone 
a  long  wav  be\-ond  the  grouiuls  of  the  parsonage. 

''It  still  wants  some  hours  to  sunset:  it  would  be  Ivind 
if  you  would  chat  a  little  longer  with  me.'"  ^\nd  Eli 
Went   on. 


134  ARNE. 

Then  Margit  began  to  talk  about  Arne.  "  I  don't 
know  if  you  know  much  of  him.  He  coukl  teach  you 
something  about  everything,  he  could  ;  dear  me,  what  a 
deal  he  has  read  !  " 

Eli  owned  she  knew  he  had  read  a  great  deal. 

"  Yes  ;  and  that's  only  the  least  thing  that  can  be  said 
of  him  ;  but  the  way  he  has  behaved  to  his  mother  all 
his  days,  that's  something  more,  that  is.  If  the  old  say- 
ing is  true,  that  he  who's  good  to  his  mother  is  good  to 
his  wife,  the  one  Arne  chooses  won't  have  much  to  com- 
plain of." 

Eli  asked  why  they  had  painted  the  house  before  them 
with  grey  paint. 

"Ah,  I  suppose  they  had  no  other;  I  only  wish  Arne 
may  sometime  be  rewarded  for  all  his  kindness  to  his 
mother.  When  he  has  a  wife,  she  ought  to  be  kind- 
hearted  as  well  as  a  good  scliolar.  What  arc  you  look- 
ing for,  child  ?" 

"  I  only  dropped  a  little  twig  I  had." 

"  Dear  me  !  I  tliink  of  a  many  things,  you  may  be  sure, 
while  I  sit  alone  in  yonder  wood.  If  ever  he  takes  home 
a  wife  who  brings  blessings  to  house  and  man,  then  I 
know  manv  a  poor  soul  will  be  glad  tliat  dav." 

Tliey  were  i)otli  silent,  and  walked  on  without  looking 
at  each  other  ;  but  soon  Eli  stopped. 

"  What's  the  matter?" 

''  One  of  mv  slioe-strings  has  come  down." 

Margit  waited  a  long  while  till  at  last  the  string  was 
tied. 

••  lie  lias  such  (|ueer  ways,"  she  i)egan  again  ;  "  he  got 
cowed  while  he  was  a  child,  and  so  he  has  got  into  the 
way  of  thinking  over  everything  bv  liimself,  and  those 
sort  of  folks  haven't  courage  to  come  forward." 

Now   Eli    must   indeed  go  l)ack,  but  ^largit  said   that 


SOMEBODY  S    FUTUUK    HOME.  I35 

Kampen  was  only  half  a  mile  off;  indeed,  not  so  far,  and 
that  Eli  must  sec  it,  as  too  she  was  so  near.  But  Eli 
thought  it  would  be  late  that  day. 

"  There'll  be  sure  to  be  somebody  to  bring  you  home." 

"No,  no,"  Eli  answered  quickly,  and  would  go  back. 

"  Arne's  not  at  home,  it's  true,"  said  Margit ;  "  but 
there's  sure  to  be  somebody  else  about ; "  and  Eli  had 
now  less  objection  to  it. 

"  If  only  I  shall  not  be  too  late,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  if  we  stand  here  much  longer  talking  about  it, 
it  niav  be  too  late,  I  dare  say."  And  they  went  on. 
''  Being  brought  up  at  the  Clergyman's,  you've  read  a 
great  deal,  I  dare  say.-^" 

Yes,  she  had. 

"  It'll  be  of  good  use  when  you  have  a  husband  who 
knows  less." 

No  ;   that,  Eli  thought  she  woukl  never  have. 

'■•Well,  no;  p'r'aps,  after  all,  it  isn't  the  best  thing; 
but  still  folks  about  here  haven't  much  learning." 

Eli  asked  if  it  was  Kampen,  she  could  see  straight 
before  her. 

"  No  ;  that's  Gransetren,  the  next  place  to  the  wood  ; 
when  we  come  farther  up  you'll  see  Kampen.  It's  a 
pleasant  place  to  live  at,  is  Kampen.  vou  ma\'  be  sure  ;  it 
seems  a  little  out  of  the  way,  it's  true  ;  Init  that  doesn't 
matter  much,  after  all." 

Eli  asked  what  made  the  smoke  that  rose  from  the 
wood. 

••  It  comes  from  a  houseman's  cottage,  belonging  to 
Kampen:  a  man  named  (  )|)i)lan(!>-Knut  li\es  there,  lie 
\vent  al)out  lonelv  till  .\riie  ga\e  him  that  piece  of 
land  to  clear.  Poor  ^Vrne  I  he  knows  what  it  is  to  be 
lonelv." 

Soon  they  came  far  enough  to  see  Kampen. 


136  ARXE. 

"Is  that  Kampcn?"  asked  Eli,  standing  still  and 
pointing. 

'"  Yes,  it  is,"  said  the  mother  ;  and  she,  too,  stood  still. 
The  sun  shone  full  in  their  faces,  and  they  shaded  their 
eyes  as  tliey  looked  down  over  the  plain.  In  the  middle 
of  it  stood  the  red-painted  house  with  its  white  window- 
frames  ;  rich  green  cornfields  lay  between  the  pale  new- 
mown  meadows,  where  some  of  the  hay  was  already  set 
in  stacks  ;  near  the  cow-house,  all  was  life  and  stir ;  t!ie 
cows,  sheep  and  goats  were  coming  home  ;  their  bells 
tinkled,  the  dogs  barked,  and  the  milkmaids  called  ;  while 
high  above  all.  rose  the  grand  tune  of  the  waterfall  from 
the  ravine.  The  farther  Eli  went,  the  more  this  filled  her 
ears,  till  at  last  it  seemed  quite  awful  to  her  ;  it  whizzed 
and  roared  through  her  head,  her  heart  throbbed  vio- 
lently, and  she  became  bewildered  and  dizzy,  and  then 
felt  so  subdued  that  she  unconsciously  began  to  walk  with 
such  small  timid  steps  that  ^Vlargit  begged  her  to  come 
on  a  little  faster.  She  started.  *•  I  never  heard  anything 
like  that  fall,"  she  said  ;   '*  I'm  quite  frightened." 

"  You'll  soon  get  used  to  it ;  and  at  last  you'll  even 
miss  it." 

"  Do  you  think  so.'  " 

"  Well,  you'll  see."     And  Margit  smiled. 

"•  Come,  now,  we'll  first  look  at  the  cattle,"  she  said, 
turning  downwards  from  the  road,  into  the  path.  "Those 
trees  on  each  side.  Nils  planted  ;  he  wanted  to  have 
everything  nice,  did  Nils  ;  and  so  does  Arne  ;  look, 
tliere's  the  garden  he  has  laid  out." 

"Oil,  how  pretty  I "  exclaimed  Eli,  going  quickly 
towards  tlic  garden  fence. 

'•We'll  locjk  at  that  by-and-bv,"  said  Margit;  "now 
we  must  go  over  to  look  at  tlie  creatures  before  they're 
locked  in  —  "      But  Eli  did  not  hear,  for  all  her  mind  was 


SOMEHODV  S    FUTURE    HOME. 


137 


turned  to  the  garden.  She  stood  looking  ut  it  till  Margit 
called  her  once  more  ;  as  she  came  along,  slie  gave  a  fur- 
tive glance  through  the  windows ;  but  she  could  see  no 
one  inside. 

They  both  went  upon  the  barn  steps  and  looked  down 
at  the  cows,  as  they  passed  lowing  into  the  cattle-house. 
Margit  named  them  one  by  one  to  Eli,  and  told  her  how 
much  milk  each  gave,  and  which  would  calve  in  the  sum- 
mer, and  which  would  not.  The  sheep  were  counted  and 
penned  in  ;  they  were  of  a  large  foreign  breed,  raised 
from  two  lambs  which  Arne  had  got  from  the  South. 
''  He  aims  at  all  such  things,"  said  Alargit,  "  though  one 
wouldn't  think  it  of  him."  Then  they  went  into  tlie 
barn,  and  looked  at  some  hay  wliich  had  been  brought  in, 
and  Eli  had  to  smell  it;  "for  such  hay  isn't  to  be  found 
everywhere,"  Alargit  said.  She  pointed  from  the  barn- 
liatch  to  the  fields,  and  told  what  kind  of  seed  was  S(5wn 
on  them,  and  how  much  of  each  kind.  "  No  less  than 
three  fields  are  new-cleared,  and  now,  this  first  year, 
they're  set  with  potatoes,  just  for  the  sake  of  the  ground  ; 
over  there,  too,  the  land's  new-cleared,  l)ut  I  suppose  that 
soil's  dini-rent,  for  there  he  lias  sown  barlev  ;  but  then  he 
has  strewed  biuMit  turf  over  it  for  manure,  for  lie  aitcnds 
to  all  sucli  things.  Well,  she  tliat  conies  here  will  iind 
things  in  gootl  order,  I'm  sure."  Now  they  went  out 
towartls  tlie  dweUing-h(nise  ;  and  b^li.  who  had  an>\vered 
nothuig  to  all  that  Margit  liad  loKl  her  about  oilier  things. 
when  thev  passed  the  garden  a>ked  if  she  might  go  into 
it  ;  and  when  she  got  leave  to  go.  she  begged  to  pick  a 
flower  or  two.  Awav  in  one  corner  was  a  little  garden- 
seat  :  she  went  oxer  and  sat  down  upon  it — perhaps  onh 
to  try  it,  for  slie  rose  directly. 

"  Now  we  must  make  haste,  else  we  shall  be  too  late. " 
saiil  Margit.  as  she  stood  at  the   house-door.      Then   they 


138  ARNE. 

went  in.  Margit  asked  if  Eli  would  not  take  some 
refreshment,  as  this  was  the  first  time  she  had  been  at 
Kampen  ;  but  Eli  turned  red  and  quickly  refused.  Then 
they  looked  round  the  room,  which  was  the  one  Arne 
and  the  mother  generally  used  in  the  day-time  ;  it  was 
not  very  large,  but  cosy  and  pleasant,  with  windows  look- 
ing out  on  the  road.  There  were  a  clock  and  a  stove  ; 
and  on  the  wall  hung  Nils'  fiddle,  old  and  dark,  but  with 
new  strings ;  beside  it  hung  some  guns  belonging  to 
Arne,  English  fishing-tackle  and  other  rare  things,  which 
the  mother  took  down  and  showed  to  Eli,  who  looked  at 
them  and  touched  them.  The  room  was  without  paint- 
ing, for  this  Arne  did  not  like  ;  neither  was  there  any  in 
the  large  prettv  room  which  looked  towards  the  ravine, 
with  the  green  mountains  on  the  other  side,  and  tlie  blue 
peaks  in  the  background.  But  the  two  smaller  rooms  in 
the  wing  were  both  painted  ;  for  in  them  the  mother 
would  live  when  she  became  old,  and  Arne  brought  a 
wife  into  the  house  :  Margit  was  very  fond  of  painting, 
and  so  in  tliese  rooms  the  ceilings  were  painted  with 
roses,  and  her  name  was  painted  on  the  cupboards,  the 
bedsteads,  and  on  all  reasonable  and  unreasonable  places  ; 
for  it  was  Arne  himself  who  had  done  it.  Tiiey  went 
into  the  kitchen,  the  store-room,  and  the  bake-house  ; 
and  now  thev  had  only  to  go  into  the  up-stairs  rooms  ; 
''  all  the  best  things  were  there,"  the  motlier  said. 

These  were  comfortable  rooms,  corresponding  with 
those  below,  but  they  were  new  and  not  yet  taken  into 
use,  save  (Mie  whicli  looked  towards  tlie  ravine.  In  tliem 
luiiig  and  stood  all  sorts  of  household  things  not  in  every- 
tlav  use.  Here  hung  a  lot  of  fur  coverlets  and  other  bed- 
clothes ;  and  the  motlier  took  hold  of  them  and  lifted 
them  ;  so  did  Eli.  who  looked  at  all  of  them  with 
pleasure,    examined    some    of   them    twice,    and    asked 


SOMEBODY  S    FUTUKH    }IOME.  I39 

questions  about  them,  growing  all  the  while  more  inter- 
ested. 

"  Now  we'll  find  the  key  of  Arne's  room,"  said  the 
mother,  taking  it  from  under  a  chest  where  it  was  hidden. 
They  went  into  the  room  ;  it  looked  towards  the  ravine  ; 
and  once  more  the  awful  booming  of  the  waterfall  met 
their  ears,  for  the  window  was  open.  They  could  see 
the  spray  rising  between  the  clilfs,  but  not  tlie  fall  itself, 
save  in  one  place  farther  up,  where  a  huge  fragment  of 
rock  had  fallen  into  it  just  where  the  torrent  came  in  full 
force  to  take  its  last  leap  into  the  depths  below.  The 
upper  side  of  this  fragment  was  covered  with  fresh  sod  ; 
and  a  few  pine-cones  had  dug  themselves  into  it,  and 
had  grown  up  to  trees,  rooted  into  the  crevices.  The  wind 
had  shaken  and  twisted  them  ;  and  the  fall  had  dashed 
against  them,  so  that  they  had  not  a  sprig  lower  tlian 
eight  feet  from  their  roots :  they  were  gnarled  and  bent ; 
yet  they  stood,  rising  high  between  the  rocky  walls. 
When  Eli  looked  out  from  the  window,  these  trees  hrst 
caught  her  eye  ;  next,  she  saw  the  snowy  peaks  rising  far 
beyond  behind  the  green  mountains.  Then  her  eyes 
passed  over  the  cjuiet  fertile  fields  back  to  the  room  ;  and 
the  first  thing  she  saw  there  was  a  large  l)ooksb.elf. 
There  were  so  manv  books  on  it  that  she  scarcelv  be- 
lieved the  Clergvman  had  more.  lieneatli  it  was  a  cup- 
board, where  Arne  kept  his  monev.  The  mother  said 
money  had  been  left  to  them  twice  abeadv.  and  if  ever\-- 
thing  went  right  thev  would  ha\e  some  more.  "  But. 
after  all,  monev's  not  the  best  thing  in  the  world  :  he  may 
get  what's  belter  still."  she  added. 

There  were  manv  little  things  in  the  cupboard  which 
were  amusing  to  see,  and  Eli  looked  at  them  all.  happv 
as  a  child.  Then  the  mother  showed  her  a  large  chest 
where  Arne"s  clothes  lav.  and  thev,  too.  were   taken   out 


140  AKSE. 

and  looked  at.  Margit  patted  Eli  on  the  shoulder. 
"  I've  never  seen  you  till  to-day,  and  yet  I'm  already  so 
fond  of  you,  my  child,"  she  said,  looking  affectionately 
into  her  eyes.  Eli  had  scarcely  time  to  feel  a  little  bash- 
ful, before  ]Margit  pulled  her  by  the  hand  antl  said  in  a 
low  voice,  "Look  at  that  little  red  chest;  there's  some- 
thing very  choice  in  that,  you  mav  be  sure." 

Eli  glanced  towards  the  chest :  it  was  a  little  square 
one,  w'hich  she  thought  she  would  very  much  like  to 
have. 

"  lie  doesn't  want  me  to  know  what's  in  tliat  cliest," 
the  mother  whispered  ;  "  and  he  always  hides  the  key." 
She  went  to  some  clothes  that  hung  on  the  wall,  took 
down  a  velvet  waistcoat,  looked  in  the  pocket,  and  there 
found  the  key. 

"  Now  come  and  look,"  she  whispered  ;  and  tliey  went 
genth'.  and  knelt  down  before  the  clicst.  As  soon  as  the 
mother  opened  it,  so  sweet  an  odor  met  them  that  l^H 
clapped  her  hands  even  before  slie  had  seen  an\thiiig. 
On  the  top  was  spread  a  handkerchief,  which  the  motlier 
took  awav.  "  Here,  look."  slie  whispered,  taking  out  a 
line  black  silk  neckerchief  sucli  as  men  do  not  wear.  ''It 
looks  just  as  if  it  was  meant  for  a  girl,"  the  mother  said. 
Eli  spread  it  upon  her  lap  and  looked  at  it,  Init  did  not  say 
a  word.  "  Here's  one  more,"  the  mother  said.  VAi  could 
not  help  taking  it  up;  and  then  the  mother  insisti-d  u])on 
tr\ing  it  on  her.  though  Eli  drew  back  and  held  her  head 
down.  vShe  did  not  know  wliat  she  woidd  not  have  given 
for  siicli  a  neckerchief;  but  she  tliought  of  sometliing  more 
than  that.      They  folded  them  up  again,  but  slowly. 

'•Now.  look  here."  the  mother  said,  taking  out  some 
handsome  ribands.  "■  I-^vervthing  seems  as  ii"  it  was  for 
a  girl."  VA\  blushed  crimson.  ])ut  she  said  nothing. 
"There's  some  more  things  vet."  said  the  mother,  taking 


S0MKI50DY  S    FUTUIU':    HOME.  I4I 

out  some  fine  black  cloth  for  a  dress ;  "  it's  fine,  I  dare 
say,"  she  added,  holding  it  up  to  the  light.  Eli's  hands 
trembled,  her  chest  heaved,  she  felt  the  blood  rushing  to 
her  head,  and  she  would  fain  have  turned  away,  but  that 
she  could  not  well  do. 

"  lie  has  bought  something  every  time  he  has  been  to 
town,"  continued  the  mother.  Eli  could  scarcely  bear  it 
any  longer  ;  she  looked  from  one  thing  to  another  in  the 
chest,  and  then  again  at  the  cloth,  and  her  face  burned. 
The  next  thing  the  mother  took  out  was  wrapped  in 
paper;  thev  imwrapped  it,  and  found  a  small  pair  of 
shoes.  Anvthing  like  them,  they  had  never  seen,  and 
the  mother  w^ondered  how  thev  could  be  made.  EH  said 
notiiing;  but  when  she  touched  the  shoes  her  fingers  left 
warm  marks  on  them.  '•  I'm  hot.  I  tliink,"  she  whis- 
pered. The  mother  put  all  the  things  carefully  to- 
gether. 

'*  Doesn't  it  seem  just  as  if  he  had  bought  them  all, 
one  after  another,  f  jr  somebody  he  was  afraid  to  give 
them  to?  "  she  said,  looking  at  Eli.  '•  He  has  kept  them 
here  in  this  chest  —  so  long."  She  laid  theni  all  in  the 
chest  again,  just  as  thev  were  before.  '*  Xow  we'll  see 
what's  here  in  the  com]:)artmenl,"  she  said,  opening  the 
lid  carefidlv,  as  if  she  were  now  going  to  show  Eli  some- 
thing specially  beautiful. 

\\  hen  VA'i  looked  she  saw  first  a  broad  buckle  f)r  a 
waistband,  next,  two  gold  rings  tied  together,  and  a 
hymn-book  bound  in  \  elyet  and  with  silver  ckisps  ;  but 
tlien  she  saw  notiiing  more,  f  )r  on  the  silver  ol  the  bo()l< 
she  had  seen  graven  in  small  letters,  '"  VJl  Ikiardsdatter 
licien." 

The  mother  wislied  her  to  look  at  something  else  ;  she 
got  no  answer,  but  saw  tear  after  tear  dropping  down 
upon    the    silk    neckerchief  and   spreaiiing  o\er    it.      She 


142  AKNK. 

put  down  the  sylgje  *  which  she  had  in  her  hand,  shut 
the  lid,  turned  round  and  drew  Eli  to  her.  Then  the 
daughter  wept  upon  her  breast,  and  the  mother  wept 
over  her,  without  either  of  them  saying  any  more. 


A  little  while  after,  Eli  walked  by  herself  in  the  gar- 
den, while  the  mother  was  in  the  kitchen  preparing 
something  nice  for  suj^jDcr ;  for  now  Arne  would  soon  be 
at  home.  Then  she  came  Qut  in  the  garden  to  Eli,  who 
sat  tracing  names  on  the  sand  with  a  stick.  When  she 
saw  ^Margit,  she  smoothed  the  sand  down  over  them, 
looked  up  and  smiled ;  but  she  had  been  weeping. 

"  There's  nothing  to  cry  about,  my  child,"  said  Margit, 
caressing  her;  '-supper's  ready  now;  and  here  comes 
Arne,"  she  added,  as  a  black  figure  aj^peared  on  the  road 
between  the  shrubs. 

Eli  stole  in,  and  the  mother  fallowed  her.  The  supper- 
table  was  nicely  spread  with  dried  meat,  cakes  and  cream 
porridge  ;  Eli  did  not  look  at  it,  however,  but  went  away 
to  a  corner  near  the  clock  and  sat  down  on  a  chair  close 
to  the  wall,  trembling  at  every  sound.  The  mother 
stood  by  the  table.  Firm  steps  were  heard  on  the  flag- 
stones, and  a  short,  light  step  in  tlie  passage,  the  door 
was  gently  opened,  and  Arne  came  in. 

The  first  thing  he  saw  was  Eli  in  the  corner  ;  he  left 
hold  on  the  door  and  stood  still.  Tliis  made  Eli  feel  yet 
more  confused  ;  she  rose,  but  then  felt  sorry  she  had  done 
so,  and  turned  aside  towards  the  wall. 

"Are  }ou  here  .^  "  said  Arne,  blushing  crimson. 

vShe  lield  her  hand  before  her  face,  as  one  does  when 
the  sun  shines  into  the  eyes. 


*   Syli^jc.    a   peculiar   kind   of    brooch    worn    in    Norway. 
Translators. 


SOMEBODY  S   FUTURE   HOME.  I43 

"  How  did  you  come  here  ? "  he  asked,  advancing  a 
few  steps. 

She  put  her  hand  down  again,  and  turned  a  little  tow- 
ards him,  but  then  bent  her  head  and  burst  into  tears. 

"Why  do  you  weep,  Eli?"  he  asked,  coming  to  her. 
She  did  not  answer,  but  wept  still  more. 

"  God  bless  you,  Eli  !  "  he  said,  laying  his  arm  round 
her.  She  leant  her  head  upon  his  breast,  and  he  whis- 
pered something  down  to  her ;  she  did  not  answer,  but 
clasped  her  hands  round  his  neck. 

They  stood  tluis  for  a  long  while  ;  and  not  a  sound  was 
heard,  save  that  of  the  fall  which  still  gave  its  eternal 
warning,  though  distant  and  subdued.  Then  some  one 
over  against  the  table  was  heard  weeping ;  Arne  looked 
up  :  it  was  tlie  mother  ;  but  he  had  not  noticed  her  till 
then.  "  Now,  I'm  sure  you  won't  go  away  from  me, 
Arne,"  she  said,  coming  across  the  floor  to  him  ;  and  she 
wept  much,  but  it  did  her  good,  she  said. 


Later,  when  they  had  supped  and  said  good-lwe  to  tlie 
mother,  Eli  and  Arne  walked  togctlier  along  the  road  to 
the  parsonage.  It  was  one  of  tliose  liglit  summer  nights 
when  all  things  seem  to  whisper  and  crowd  together,  as 
if  in  fear.  Even  he  who  has  from  childhood  i>een  accus- 
tomed to  such  niglits,  feels  strangely  influenced  bv  them, 
and  goes  about  as  if  expecting  something  to  happen  : 
light  is  there,  l)ut  not  life.  Often  the  skv  is  tinged  with 
blood-red.  and  loc^ks  out  between  the  ])ale  clouds  like  an 
eve  that  has  watclietl.  One  seems  to  hear  a  whispering 
all  around,  but  it  comes  oiflv  from  one's  own  brain,  which 
is  over-excited.  Man  shrinks,  feels  his  own  littleness, 
and  thinks  of  his  God. 

Those  two  who  were  walking  here  also  kept  close  to 


144  ARNE. 

each  other  ;  they  felt  as  if  they  had  too  much  happiness, 
and  they  feared  it  might  be  taken  from  them, 

"  I  can  hardly  believe  it,"  Arne  said. 

"  I  feel  almost  the  same,"  said  Eli,  looking  dreamily 
before  her. 

"  Tct  tfs  trtie^''  he  said,  laying  stress  on  each  word ; 
"  now  I  am  no  longer  going  about  only  thinking ;  for 
once  I  have  done  something." 

lie  paused  a  few  moments,  and  then  laughed,  but  not 
gladly.  "  No,  it  was  not  I,"  he  said ;  "  it  was  mother 
who  did  it." 

He  seemed  to  have  continued  this  thought,  for  after  a 
while  he  said,  "  Up  to  this  day  I  have  done  nothing ;  not 
taken  mv  part  in  anything.  I  have  looked  on.  .  .  .  and 
listened." 

He  went  on  a  little  farther,  and  then  said  warmly, 
"  God  be  thanked  that  I  have  got  through  in  tliis  way  ; 
.  .  .  now  people  will  not  have  to  see  many  things  which 
would  not  have  been  as  they  ought.  .  .  ."  Then  aitcr  a 
while  he  added,  "•  But  if  some  one  had  not  helped  me, 
perhaps  I  should  have  gone  on  alone  for  ever."  He  was 
silent. 

"  What  do  you  think  father  will  say,  dear.?"  asked  Eli, 
who  had  been  busy  with  her  own  thoughts. 

"  I  am  going  over  to  ]?6en  early  to-morrow  morning," 
said  Arne  ;  —  "  that^  at  any  rate,  I  must  do  myself,"  he 
added,  determining  he  would  now  be  cheerful  and  brave, 
and  never  tliink  of  sad  tilings  again  ;  no,  never  !  "  And, 
Eli.  it  was  you  who  found  my  song  in  tlie  nut-wood?" 
She  lauglied.  ''  And  the  tune  I  had  made  it  for,  you  got 
hold  C)f.  too." 

"  I  took  the  one  which  suited  it,"  she  said,  looking 
down,  lie  smiled  joyfully  and  bent  his  face  down  to 
hers. 


SOMEBODY  S  FUTURE  HOME.  I45 

"  But  the  other  song  you  did  not  know?" 

"  Which  ?  "  she  asked  looking  up.  .   .   . 

"  Eli  .  .  .  you  mustn't  be  angry  with  me  .  .  .  but  one 
day  this  spring  .  .  .  yes,  I  couldn't  help  it,  I  heard  you 
singing  on  the  parsonage-hill." 

She  blushed  and  looked  down,  but  then  she  laughed. 
"Then,  after  all,  you  have  been  sen'ed  just  right,"  she 
said. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Well  —  it  was  ;  nay,  it  wasn't  my  fault ;  it  was  your 
mother  .   .   .  well  .   .  .  another  time  .   .   ." 

"Nay  ;  tell  it  me  now." 

She  would  not ;  —  then  he  stopped  and  exclaimed, 
"  Surely,  you  haven't  been  up-stairs?"  He  was  so  grave 
that  she  felt  frightened,  and  looked  down. 

"  Mother  has  perhaps  found  the  key  to  that  little 
chest.''"  he  added  in  a  gentle  tone. 

She  hesitated,  looked  up  and  smiled,  but  it  seemed  as 
if  only  to  keep  back  her  tears ;  then  he  laid  his  arm 
round  her  neck  and  drew  her  still  closer  to  liim.  He 
trembled,  lights  seemed  flickering  before  his  eyes,  his 
head  burned,  he  bent  over  her  and  his  lips  sought  hers, 
but  could  hardly  find  them  ;  he  staggered,  witlidrew  liis 
arm,  and  turned  aside,  afraid  to  look  at  her.  Tlie  clouds 
had  taken  sucli  stiange  shapes  ;  there  was  one  straight 
before  him  whicli  looked  like  a  goat  with  two  great 
horns,  and  standing  on  its  hintl  legs  ;  and  there  was  llie 
nose  of  an  old  woman  witli  her  hair  tangled  ;  and  tliei'e 
was  the  picture  of  a  big  man,  wliieli  was  set  slantwise, 
and  then  was  suddenly  rent.  .  .  .  Ihit  just  over  the  moun- 
tain the  sky  was  blue  and  clear  ;  the  clilF  stood  gloomy, 
while  the  lake  lay  quietly  beneath  it,  afraitl  to  move  ;  jiale 
and  misty  it  lav.  forsaken  both  by  sun  and  moon,  but  the 
wood  went  down  to  it,  full  of  love  just  as  betbre.      .Some 

10 


146  ARNE. 

birds  woke  and  twittered  half  in  sleep ;  answers  came 
over  from  one  copse  and  then  from  another,  but  there  was 
no  danger  at  hand,  and  they  slept  once  more  .  .  .  there 
was  peace  all  around.  Arne  felt  its  blessedness  lying 
over  him  as  it  lay  over  the  evening. 

"  Thou  great,  thou  Almighty  God  !  "  he  said,  so  that 
he  heard  the  words  himself,  and  he  folded  his  hands,  but 
went  a  little  before  Eli  that  she  might  not  see  it. 


THE    DOUBLE    WEDDING.  I47 


XVI. 

THE  DOUBLE    WEDDING. 

IT  was  in  the  end  of  harvest-time,  and  the  corn  was 
being  carried.  It  was  a  bright  day  ;  there  liad  been 
rain  in  the  niglit  and  earlier  in  morning-,  but  now  tlie 
air  was  clear  and  mild  as  in  summer-time.  It  was 
Saturday  ;  yet  many  boats  were  steering  over  the  vSwart- 
water  towards  the  church  ;  the  men,  in  their  white  shirt- 
sleeves, sat  rowing,  while  the  women,  with  light-colored 
kerchiefs  on  their  heads,  sat  in  the  stern  and  the  forepart. 
But  still  more  boats  were  steering  towards  Been,  in  readi- 
ness to  go  out  thence  in  procession ;  for  to-day  Baard 
Been  kept  the  wedding  of  his  daughter,  Eli,  and  Arne 
Nilsson  Kampen. 

The  doors  were  all  open,  people  went  in  and  out, 
children  witli  pieces  of  cake  in  their  hands  stood  in  the 
yard,  fidgety  about  their  new  clothes,  and  looking  dis- 
tantly at  each  other;  an  old  wcjman  sat  lonely  and  weep- 
ing on  the  steps  of  the  storeliouse  :  it  was  Margit  Kam- 
pen. She  wore  a  large  silver  ring,  witli  several  small 
rings  fastened  to  the  upper  plate  ;  anil  now  and  then  she 
looked  at  it:  Nils  gave  it  her  on  their  weddii.g-day,  and 
she  had  never  worn  it  since. 

The  purveyor  of  the  feast  and  the  two  young  brides- 
men—  the  Clergvman's  son  and  ]:^li's  brother- — went 
about  in  the  rooms  ollering  refreshmeiUs  to  tlic  wedding- 
guests  as  they  arrived.  L  p-stairs  in  ICIi's  room,  were  the 
Clergyman's  lady,  the  bride  and  Matliilde.  who  had  come 


148  ARXE. 

from  town  only  to  put  on  her  bridal-dress  and  ornaments, 
for  this  they  had  promised  each  other  from  childhood. 
Arne  was  dressed  in  a  fine  cloth  suit,  round  jacket,  black 
hat,  and  a  collar  that  Eli  had  made  ;  and  he  was  in  one 
of  the  down-stairs  rooms,  standing  at  the  window  where 
she  wrote  "  Arne."  It  was  open,  and  he  leant  upon  the 
sill,  looking  away  over  the  calm  water  towards  the  dis- 
tant bight  and  the  church. 

Outside  in  the  passage,  two  met  as  they  came  from 
doing  their  part  in  the  day's  duties.  The  one  came  from 
the  stepping-stones  on  the  shore,  where  he  had  been 
arranging  the  church-bouts ;  he  wore  a  round  black 
jacket  of  fine  cloth,  and  blue  frieze  trousers,  off  which 
the  dye  came,  making  his  hands  blue  :  his  white  collar 
looked  well  against  his  fair  face  and  long  light  hair ;  his 
high  forehead  was  calm,  and  a  quiet  smile  lay  round  his 
lips.  It  was  Baard.  She  whom  he  met  had  just  come 
from  the  kitchen,  dressed  ready  to  go  to  cliurch.  She 
was  tall  and  upright,  and  came  tln-ougli  the  door  some- 
what hurriedly,  but  witli  a  firm  step  ;  when  she  met  Baard 
she  stopped,  and  her  mouth  drew  to  one  side.  It  was 
Birgit,  the  wife.  Each  had  something  to  say  to  the  other, 
but  neither  could  find  words  for  it.  Baard  was  even 
more  embarrassed  than  she  ;  he  smiled  more  and  more, 
and  at  last  tiu^nctl  towards  the  staircase,  saying  as  he 
began  to  step  up,  '•  Perhaps  you'll  come  too."  And  she 
went  up  after  him.  Here,  up-stairs,  was  no  one  but 
themselves  ;  yet  Baard  locked  the  door  after  them,  and  he 
was  a  long  v.hile  about  it.  When  at  last  he  turned  round, 
Birgit  stood  looking  out  from  the  window,  perhaps  to 
avoid  looking  in  the  room.  15aard  took  from  his  l^reast- 
pockct  a  little  silver  cup,  and  ;i  little  bottle  of  wine,  and 
poured  out  some  for  lier.  But  she  would  not  take  any, 
though  he  told  her  it  was  wine  tlie  Clergyman  had  sent 


THE    DOUBLE    WEDDING.  I49 

them.  Tnen  he  drank  some  liimsclf,  but  oflcrcd  it  to  her 
several  times  while  he  was  drinking.  He  corked  the 
bottle,  put  it  again  into  his  pocket  with  the  cup,  and  sat 
tlown  on  a  chest. 

lie  breathed  deeply  several  times,  looked  down  and 
said,  "  I'm  so  happy  to-day ;  and  I  thought  I  must  speak 
freely  with  you  ;  it's  a  long  while  since  I  did  so." 

Birgit  stood  leaning  with  one  hand  upon  the  window- 
sill.  Baard  went  on,  "  I've  been  thinking  about  Nils,  the 
tailor,  to-day  ;  he  separated  us  two  ;  I  thought  it  wouldn't 
go  beyond  our  wedding,  but  it  has  gone  farther.  To-day, 
a  son  of  his,  well-taught  and  handsome,  is  taken  into  our 
family,  and  we  have  given  him  our  only  daughter.  What 
now,  if  we,  Birgit,  were  to  keep  oiu' wedding  once  again, 
and  keep  it  so  that  we  can  never  more  be  separated .'' " 

His  voice  trembled,  and  he  gave  a  little  cough.  Birgit 
laid  her  head  down  upon  lier  arm,  but  said  nothing. 
Baard  waited  long,  but  he  got  no  answer,  and  he  had 
himself  nothing  more  to  say.  He  looked  up  and  grev/ 
very  pale,  for  she  did  not  even  turn  her  head.  Then  he 
rose. 

At  the  same  moment  came  a  gentle  knock  at  the  door, 
and  a  soft  voice  asked,  ''Are  you  coming  now,  mother?" 
It  was  Eli.  Birgit  raised  her  head,  and,  looking  towards 
the  (.loor,  she  saw  iKiard's  pale  face.  "  Are  you  coming 
now,  mother?"  was  asked  once  more. 

"Yes,  now  I  am  coming,"  said  Birgit  in  a  broken 
voice,  while  she  gave  her  hand  to  Baartl,  antl  l:urst  into  a 
violent  ilood  of  tears. 

Tlie  two  hands  pressed  each  otlicr ;  they  were  l)Oth 
toihvorn  now,  but  they  clasped  as  tlrmlv  as  if  they  had 
sought  each  other  for  twenty  vears.  They  were  still 
locked  together,  when  Baard  and  Birgit  went  to  the  door  ; 
and  afterwards  when  the  bridal  train  went  down   to  the 


150  ARNE. 

Stepping-stones  on  the  shore,  and  Arne  gave  his  hand  to 
EH,  Baard  looked  at  them,  and,  against  all  custom,  took 
Birgit  by  tlie  hand  and  followed  them  with  a  bright 
smile. 

But  Margit  Kampen  went  behind  them  lonely. 

Baard  was  quite  overjoyed  that  day.  While  he  was 
talking  with  the  rowers,  one  of  them,  who  sat  looking  :it 
the  mountains  behind,  said  how  strange  it  was  that  evt-n 
such  a  steep  cliff  could  be  clad.  "  Ah,  whether  it  wishes 
to  be,  or  not,  it  must,"  said  Baard,  looking  all  along  the 
train  till  his  eyes  rested  on  the  bridal  pair  and  his  wife. 

"  Who  could  have  foretold  this  twenty  years  ago  ? " 
said  he. 


Cambridge  :  Stereotyjied  and  Printed  by  John  Wilson  &  Son. 


THE 

CHILDREN'S     GARLAND 

FROM     THE     BEST     POETS 

SELECTED    AND    ARRANGED 

By    COVENTRY    PAT.MORE 

i6nio.     Red  Vellum.     Vignette  Title  engraved  by  Marsh. 
Price,   S1.75. 

LONDON  MORNING  POST. 
"  It  includes  specimens  of  all  the  gre.it  masters  in  the  art 
of  Poetry,  sele<5led  with  the  matured  judj;ment  of  a  man  con- 
centrated on  obtaining  insight  into  the  feelings  and  tastes  of 
childhood,  and  desirous  to  awaken  its  finest  impulses,  to  cul- 
tivate its  keenest  sensibilities." 

CINCINN.\TI  GAZETTE. 
"The  University  Press  at  Cambridge  has  turned  out  many 
wonderful  specimens  of  the  art,  but  in  exquisite  finish  it  has 
never  eciualled  the  evidence  of  its  skill  which  now  lies  before  us. 
The  text,  compared  with  the  average  specimens  of  modern  books, 
shines  out  with  as  bright  a  contrast  as  an  Elzevir  by  the  side  of 
one  of  its  dingy  and  bleared  contemporaries.  In  the  quality 
of  its  paper,  in  its  vignettes  and  head-pieces,  the  size  of  its 
pages,  in  every  feature  that  can  gratify  the  eye,  indeed,  the 
'  Garland  '  could  hardly  boar  improvement.  Similar  in  its  gen- 
eral getting  up  to  the  much-admired  Golden  Treasury  of  English 
Songs  and  Lyrics,  issued  by  the  same  piil)li^.hors  a  few  months 
since,  it  excels,  we  think,  in  the  perfection  of  various  minor 
details." 

NEW  YORK  WORLD. 
"  It  is  a  beautiful  book,  —  the  most  beautiful  in  some  respecfU 
that  has  been  published  for  years  ;  going  over  a  large  number  of 
poets  and  wide  range  of  themes  as  none  but  a  poet  could  have 
done.  A  choice  cabinet  of  precious  jewels,  or  better  still,  a 
dainty  wreath  of  blossoms, —  'The  Children's  Garland.'" 

BOSTON  TRANSCRIPT. 
"  It  is  in  all  respects  a  delicious  volume,  and  will  b.e  as  great  a 
favorite  with  the  ekler  as  with  the  yoimger  members  of  every 
family  into  which  it  penetrates.  Some  of  the  bc-t  pnems  in  the 
English  language  are  included  in  the  selections.  Paper,  printing, 
and  binding,  —  indeed,  all  the  elements  entering  into  the  mechani- 
cal e.\ecvUion  of  the  book,  —  offer  to  the  view  nothing  \  herein 
the  m0.1t  fastidious  eye  can  detect  a  blemibh." 

SI'RtNOriEI.D    REPriil.ICAN. 

"  It  is  almost  too  d.iinty  a  book  to  be  tourhed,  and  yet  it  is  sure 
to  be  well  th\unbed  whenever  it  falls  into  the  liands  of  a  lover  of 
genuine  pixitrj-. " 

3 


THE 

JEST-BOOK 

THE    CHOICEST    ANECDOTES    AND    SAVINGS 

SELECTED   AND   ARRANGED 

By   mark    lemon 

i6mo.     Green  Vellum.     Vignette  Title.     Price,  $  1.75. 

BOSTON  POST. 

"  Gentlemen,  prepare  to  smile.  Here  is  an  interest  for  a  min- 
ute or  a  dull  day.  ^lark  Lemon  gives  us  the  result  of  his  recon- 
dite searches  and  seizures  in  the  regions  of  infinite  jest.  Like 
all  good  jesters,  he  has  the  quality  of  sound  philosophy  in  him, 
and  of  reason  also,  for  he  discriminates  closely,  and  serves  up  his 
wit  with  a  deal  of  refinement  in  it." 

HARTFORD  PRESS. 

"  So  exquisitely  is  the  book  printed,  that  every  jest  in  it  shines 

like   a   new   pold   dollar.     It   is  the   apotheosis  of  jokes 

There  is  jollity  enough  in  it  to  keep  the  whole  American  press 
good  humored." 

PROVIDENCE  JOURNAL. 
"  Mark  Lemon,  who  helps  to  flavor  Puncli.  has  gathered  this 
volume  of  anecdotes,  this  parcel  of  sharp  and  witty  sayings,  and 
we  ha%'e  no  fear  in  declaring  that  the  reader  will  find  it  a  book  of 
some  \vi,sdom  and  much  amusement.  By  this  single  'Lemon' 
we  judge  o{  the  rest." 

CONGRESSIONAL  GLOBE. 

"This  little  volume  is  a  very  agrec.ible  provocative  of  mirth, 
and  as  such,  it  will  be  useful  in  driving  dull  care  away." 

ST.  JOHN'S  GLOBE. 

"  It  contains  many  old  jokes,  which  like  good  wine  become 
all  the  better  forage,  and  many  new  and  fugitive  ones  which  un- 
til now  never  had  a  local  habitation  and  a  name." 

CHICAGO  JOURNAL. 

"  For  a  fireside  we  can  imagine  nothing  more  diverting  or 
more  likely  to  be  laughed  over  during  the  intervals  of  labor  or 
study." 

7 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

305  De  Neve  Drive  -  Parking  Lot  17  •  Box  951388 

LOS  ANGELES,  CALIFORNIA  90095-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library  from  which  It  was  borrowed. 


OCT 


A    001  276  949    3 


Univers: 

Soutl 

Libi 


